The office door squeaked as it opened, a fine start to what was surely going to be a stellar first impression. Whatever Ben had suspected would be coming through his door, the sharply-dressed and world-renowned Ludwig Schultz came in right after 'little green men from the moon'. The picture Ben still held in his head came from his Army days, which aged far better than the weary kraut did. If it wasn't for the knowledge of just [i]who[/i] and [i]what[/i] the man was, he had an almost uncle-like demeanor. Ben regarded the man silently as he hobbled over to the desk, taking in every detail. He would be a terrible investigator if he didn't notice the bum leg, and a brief bubbling of something dark within Ben Carter's core had his finger caress the slide of his heater. 

[i]Only a kraut would have the audacity to insult a man in his own office,[/i] Ben thought bitterly. Ben met the older man's dangerous gaze with one of his own, a faint twitch pinching the scar on Ben's cheek; courtesy of a Kraut rifle butt. Swallowing his bile as well as his pride, Ben gestured to the seat across from him, hand drifting from the pistol in the drawer to a notepad. Leafing to a clear page, Ben snatched a fountain pen from the catch-all tray on his stationary. 

"All of my energy goes into my work, Mr. Schultz. The appearances are that of a dedicated professional who simply can't afford a maid," Ben said tightly, putting on his best professional guise and mustering a tight-lipped smile. Ben, unlike the woman now in question, was no actor. His smile had all the appeal of a tiger's. Still, Ben firm hand made the nib of his pen dance across the notepad in his own messy shorthand. 

For the most part, Ben remained silent as the aged German explained his desires for a case. Not so much out of professionalism as out of propriety. The wrong word would see this prize catch out of his reach. Kraut War-Hero-Politician money spent as well as the rest, and rent was overdue. Schultz's liberty with price was noted with two giant dollar signs in Ben's notes, as if he'd need reminding. 

"You wouldn't be the first man run afoul by the Hollywood tabloids, Mr. Schultz. It's where journalism goes to die, so naturally they're all vultures," Ben drawled in a steady pace, every word as gentle as a New York slugger upside the head.

"I charge five dollars an hour, plus expenses, though this first consultation is free of charge," Ben said, hating himself for being so goddamned honest. "Though my average rates don't generally presume that I'm racing against the likes of Hearst. Do you know the name of the studio that Mrs. Schultz has signed on with, sir? The more candid you are with me now, the less I'll have to dig on the clock. It'll save me time, and you your money." It almost hurt to say, but it was that integrity that kept Ben apart from the krauts, wasn't it? 

"A photo and her projected itinerary too, if it isn't too much trouble..." Ben finished, his pen making and audible [i]thud[/i] of punctuation before knitting his calloused fingers together atop his desk.