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Written for @cute little kokiri girl, using the Youthlock ideas and setting explained in this post! Our plan is to release about a chapter a month, so strap in! Chapter 1 I can tell a lot about a broad by what troubles she decides are worth my time to solve. To put it in terms any Joe could understand, my services don’t come cheap, and I’m not in the business of looking glamorous. Sometimes a dame will wander in telling me how her cat’s gone missing, and it’s not because she’s mistaken me for a newsie looking to make cash on the side, it’s because she’s got too much dough and not enough sense. On the other hand, if I have a dame come in telling me her husband’s gone missing, that tells me something else–if she were rich, she’d be hiring some glitzy gumshoe who’s got his name in the papers, assuming she didn’t just place a donation or two to get the coppers on the job. You don’t come to the only youthlocked detective in Los Angeles because you’re just stirring up trouble. And that’s me–Nick Juliet, Private Eye. Don’t let my looks fool you, I might need to sit on a phonebook to use my desk and I’ve still not finished potty training, but I’ve been old enough to drink since prohibition ended, and if you take me for a kid, I’ll take you for a ride. It was just about closing time when the latest doll waddled into my office, looking cute as a button. She had it all–golden hair that curled up like a coiled spring around her shoulders, eyes like blue puddles, wearing a little pink number with lace that just wouldn’t quit. She stood maybe three feet tall even in her patent leather heels, but even though I could hear her diaper crinkle as she crossed my office, I knew this wasn’t any little child who’d wandered in off the street. Youthlocks aren’t common, but we aren’t all that rare either. The lucky ones get all the way to nine or ten before they stop aging, when they’re tall enough to reach the middle shelves at the grocery store without jumping. At a glance, we look like kids, but you can tell us apart if you know what to look for. The diaper bulge is one thing; I can’t say why, but our potty training goes to squat when the youthlock sets in. There’s the walk, too. You spend thirty years practicing, you’ll have a swagger to your step that few tots will match. In this case, though, I didn’t need any of my observation skills, just a pair of eyes. This wasn’t just any dame who’d walked in off the street, it was Shelly Chapel. The Shelly Chapel, the starlet with more than thirty hit films to her name. “You must be Nick Juliet,” she said, stopping in front of my desk. She had to stand on tip-toe to see over it, giving me a view that only showed her precocious eyes and a stare that’d stolen the hearts of audiences across the world. “And you’re Shelly Chapel,” I replied, glancing past her. My secretary had stepped out. Hopping down off my desk chair, I walked around, pulling out the seat for her. Prepared for a Youthlock, I had a spare book I kept on the edge of my desk at all times, but sizing up the actress, I quickly realized I’d need more height than just one book offered. Stacking a couple newspapers beneath it, I offered her a hand, pretending that I couldn’t spot her diaper beneath her dress as she got onto the boosted-up seat. “I thought you’d be shorter,” she commented, looking down at me from her perch. I had a good six inches on her at least, the result of my youthlock setting in a couple years past hers. Walking back to my own seat, I clambered into my own chair, feeling the need for a pick-me-up. “How can I help you?” I asked, reaching into the pocket of my vest and producing a package of candy cigarettes. Extending one, I offered her first pick of the pack, but she shook her head. “They say you’re good at finding things,” Miss Chapel said, her golden hair flopping adorably over her shoulder as she tilted her head to eye me. It felt odd, seeing decades of suspicion in eyes that belonged to a preschooler’s face. “They say you’re discreet, too, but I don’t know much else about you.” Setting the candy stick between my lips, I sat back, letting the slight sugar rush give me the energy I needed. “Funny thing about keeping secrets,” I said as chalky sugar dissolved down my tongue. “If you never share them, nobody ever knows how good you are at keeping them.” “Well.” Shelly nodded thoughtfully at my comment. “Thanks to the paparazzi, my life’s an open book. I can’t take a nap without a camera finding its way between the crib bars. For once, I’d like to be ahead of the tabloids.” I nodded, taking the notepad from my desk. “Ahead of the tabloids on what?” “My manager, William Waters. He’s a chisel, and a bastard, and he’s trying to kill my career.” She sat back, eyeing me, as though waiting for me to call her crazy or question her story. I knew this part all too well. Dames who came in my door weren’t always looking for the truth, they just wanted to know that someone believed them. I’d learned a lesson or two from the girls on fourth street: So long as they paid, it never hurt me to play the pal. Nodding, I clicked my pen a couple times, jotting down names. “Give it to me,” I prompted. “From the beginning.” “You know who I am,” she began, stating it as an observation, not a question. I nodded anyway, and she continued, “I’ve been in the business for a long time–hell, I started playing six year olds when I was actually six. I’ve had the same manager for a decade and a half, and I’ve been at the same studio for the past eleven years. And let me tell you–I’m just about sick of it.” Her gaze drifted out the window looking wistful. I raised an eyebrow. “You’re done with acting?” “I’m done with Shelly Chapel,” she replied. “Little girl, sings and dances, cute as a button–it’s so goddamned sweet it makes me want to choke. I’ve been acting for my whole life, Mr. Juliet, but it seems like I’ve only ever been cast in one role.” Nodding, I chewed on my thoughts, and on the tip of the candy cigarette. “Alright. So what’s the problem?” “I’ve been auditioning for new roles,” Shelly explained, reaching down to dig into her purse. “And my manager–he’s worthless. He’s not able to do a damned thing for me. With my resume, I should be able to walk onto any set I please and get a part, but no, it’s like a kid wandered into a factory, they just want to coo over how cute I am and then usher me away. I was beginning to suspect something, and then this happened.” Producing a letter, she tossed it onto the desk. I leaned forward, unfolding the wrinkled paper and skimming the note. It was written in a tight cursive script, jotted down by someone with good penmanship. Phone call from Candor Taurus of Erikson Productions, asked to pass along: He’s confused why you didn’t accept the part, but they’ve decided to go with someone else. He asked why you never responded, after you were so enthusiastic at the audition, but he had to make another choice to get production moving and couldn’t wait any longer. I frowned. “Candor Taurus? The director of It Occurred One Evening?” Raising an eyebrow, I asked, “Why didn’t you respond?” “Because, I never got told I’d been accepted!” she snapped bitterly. “Calls don’t come for me directly, I’m too busy to answer the phone on set. Typically, William will accept them for me and let me know if anything’s important, but my manager claims he never got this one.” “Who wrote the note?” I asked, holding up the paper she’d given me. “One of the receptionists.” Shelly reached over, taking the message back. “If nobody’s around to take the call, they’ll pass along messages and have them delivered.” “Could several messages have been missed?” I asked. “A few phone calls in a row?” She shook her head, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Impossible. If nobody picked up, his studio would call back. Someone got the message, and just didn’t pass it along to me.” “Or several messages, by the sounds of it,” I said, frowning as I thought it over. “So, you think your manager killed your chance at a new role? Why would he do that?” “You know what his job is?” Shelly asked. When I shook my head, she explained, “It’s to sit around and collect a paycheck while I do all the work. A manager’s supposed to find new jobs for me, but we’ve been working on the same lot for more than a decade. All he’s had to do was get a bonus whenever someone calls up asking for an endorsement or product sponsorship–if I start working for new companies, taking on serious work, he’ll actually have to get off his ass for once. Clearly, he’d rather keep the easy ride going.” “So fire him,” I suggested. “You’re the biggest youthlock name in town, I’m sure there’s managers out there who’d blow their wig to scoop you up.” “He’s got me in a bulletproof contract,” she glowered. “Locked me into it before I was old enough to know better: If I fire him without cause, there’s a do-not-compete saying I can’t bring on anyone else. I need proof he screwed me so I can take his ass to court and hire his replacement.” I nodded, mulling it over. Her story sounded plausible, but I didn’t just take every plausible case that wandered in off the street, no matter how cute she looked when she gave me a pleading look. “Miss Chapel,” I began. Her expression fell, then I saw the beginnings of an angry snarl. “You don’t believe me?” “I believe you,” I promised, quelling her anger, “But if you’re right, if your manager took the calls and then buried them, or he threw away notes from the telephone operators, that’s going to be almost impossible to prove. I’d need to get him to admit it, and it’s not often you’ll convince a man to incriminate himself. You’d be wasting your money if you hired me.” “But there’s a chance?” she asked, leaning forward. “Right?” “Not a good chance.” I shook my head, biting the end of the candy cigarette into pieces and chewing on it. “Even if he’s got loose lips, once a private eye shows up on set and starts asking questions, he’ll clam up like a wet diaper in winter.” She nodded, thoughtful. “I might be able to do something about that–I can get you onto set without it being too disruptive.” “I don’t want to take your money and leave you without answers.” I shook my head, leaning back in my chair. Persisting, she dug into her purse again. “I understand. Payment up front, then.” Taking out a stack of bills, she dropped it onto my desk, where the fresh green cash sat between us. I frowned. I had a hard time saying no to dames in desperate straits, but I had an even harder time saying no to cash up front. Leaning forward, I took the wad of bills, riffling through them like a deck of cards. “What’s your plan to get me on set?” I asked, nodding. “Call you an extra,” she explained. “We’re filming a scene at an orphanage in two days. Kid actors are cheap, but they’re hard to work with–Youthlocks are better if you can find ‘em willing to act.” Thinking on it, I pursed my lips. “I don’t care to have my picture taken.” “You’ll just be a kid in the room,” she promised. “Please, Mister Juliet. There’s nobody else I can trust with this.” I considered a little longer, but my heart was already made up long before I nodded my head. “I’ll take the job,” I said. “Call my secretary, Miss Brown, tomorrow, get her the details for when the filming starts.” Smiling, she pushed to her feet, falling down to the floor. I could only see her eyes over the edge of my desk, but I saw relief in them. “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me yet,” I replied, staying in my seat. “I still don’t think I’ll be able to get much out of him.” She waddled out of my office, skirt flouncing as she reached up to turn the handle on my frosted glass door. I mulled things over while she left, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. A film set–a whole studio full of people who lied for a living, and a case that it’d be impossible to prove before any judge. (Why do I even take these jobs?) I thought to myself, sitting back and putting my feet up on the desk. There was something foul in the air about this whole situation, but I couldn’t place my finger on what. As I pondered, my door swung open a second time, but now it was a familiar face who walked in, carrying a paper sack. Margaret Brown, the best damned secretary on the west coast. She was just a little younger than me, but stood a solid two feet taller, actually looking like a woman in her mid twenties. “You’ll never guess who I walked by on the street!” She exclaimed, excitement shining on her face as she set down the sack. “You’d be surprised,” I replied coolly, hopping off my office chair and walking over to her. “Go on,” she prompted, removing a package of diapers from the bag. “Guess.” “Shelly Chapel?” I suggested, eyeing the package. “No, it was–” she began, before pausing to look down at me. She sniffed, disappointed. “How’d you know?” “Because, we’ve got our next job,” I replied, reading the label. “‘Coddles’?” “It’s the new disposable diaper brand,” she explained smoothly, before guiding the conversation back on track. “We’re working for the Shelly Chapel?” “The one and only.” I frowned. “I don’t see what’s so bad about terry cloth and plastic–old fashioned diapers have never done me wrong in the past.” “You’re not the one who has to do your laundry,” she replied haughtily. “And, on that subject, I smell a soldier who needs a change–let’s get you freshened up, boss.” I rolled my eyes but took her hand, waddling behind her to the bathroom where she hefted me onto our changing table. Smiling as she undid my diaper, Margaret asked, “So, what did the little starlet want?” Crossing my arms and wrinkling my nose, I stared at the ceiling. I could have changed myself, but Margeret was faster and did a better job, so I took the opportunity to get her help whenever I could. “She wants to be taken seriously.” “Oh?” Margaret inquired, mostly making the sound as a prompt for me to keep going while she wiped my thighs clean. “Bottoms up.” Pushing to raise my hips off the table, I let her pull my diaper away and wipe to get everything else clean. “She says someone’s sabotaging her career, trying to keep her out of serious film.” Margeret nodded, dusting me down with fresh baby powder, filling the room with an overbearing cloud of perfumed talcum. “And do you think she’s right?” “I don’t know.” I pondered it quietly for a little while as Margeret folded up my new diaper, taping it down. I still didn’t see the issue with good, old-fashioned cloth diapers, but the sticky tapes did seem to be easier to apply. “I don’t trust her.” “Really?” Margaret seemed genuinely surprised as she sat me upright and moved to wash her hands. “Shelly Chapel? That girl seems like she’s a saint in her films.” “That’s the thing about actresses,” I replied. “She’s made a career out of trying to be someone she’s not–so, call me skeptical, but I’m not taking a bite ‘til I know that the sweet isn't just there to cover up something sour.” ... Support for this fiction is provided by readers like you! https://reamstories.com/peculiarchangelingabdl https://subscribestar.adult/peculiarchangeling