A/N- Based on a prompt from FromTheBarricades (neighborhoodspaceman): Alex is a 50's private investigator who is hired to search for Piper, who has gone missing. I love film noir and old 40s and 50s stories (novels by Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, all that stuff) so this is sort of my homage to that stuff with Vauseman mixed in because of course it all comes back to Vauseman. Fawning praise (and constructive criticism) is always welcome in the reviews... seriously please let me know what you think.

Chapter 1- Trouble is My Business

Nicky always said that a beautiful woman was going to be the death of me. I always thought she was full of shit... Because how can a woman be the death of you if you never spend more than three nights with any of them? But then I met Piper Chapman and everything I thought I knew blew up in my fucking face.

I'm waking up. I'm being dragged forcefully back into consciousness and I can't figure out why the fuck it's happening. It could be the headache that's starting to pound in my temple, the emerging hangover reminding me that the tenth scotch and soda may have been one too many. It could be the fucking too bright California sun streaming in through the shitty threadbare curtains hanging forlornly over the window of my tiny bedroom in my tiny apartment. It could be the fact that the fucking girl that I collapsed on top of last night after a vigorous, if sloppy, drunken fuck is still draped over me, snoring like a god damn freight train...

But it's probably because someone just smacked the back of my aching head hard and yelled, "Rise and shine, Vause!"

I grimaced, recognizing the raspy, cigarette stained voice of my (supposed) best friend and forced one eye open to find the face of Nicky Nichols about six inches away from mine, a sardonic grin on her lips, her wild mane of hair trailing over my pillow. I started, scrambling upwards in shock, "... the fuck Nichols! I fucking told you I hate it when you do that... Jesus!"

She barked a laugh, standing up straight as I groped on my bedside table for my glasses. "Didn't want you to mistake me for Lana Turner or some shit. I know you're fucking blind as a bat without those things."

I sat up, ignoring the fact that I wasn't wearing any clothes (nothing Nichols hadn't seen before) and put my head in my hands with a groan, "If you were Lana Turner I don't think I'd mind. Now gimme a fucking cigarette and tell me why the fuck you're here," I muttered.

Eyes still lit with amusement, she pulled out her pack of cigarettes, lit two and handed me one. Then she gestured to the girl, who was still sawing logs, and said, "Get sleeping beauty outta here then we'll talk..."

The girl (Betty? Bessie? Becky?) was all too eager to get out, which didn't surprise me. Once I started to recall what had happened the night before, I remembered that I had picked her up at Red's. Some socialite debutante who wanted to see what sinning felt like and woke up in the morning feeling like she needed to cleanse her soul. She'd been a fucking blonde blur as she'd hastily dressed and dashed out the door, throwing nervous glances at Nicky who had, of course, been leering at her the entire time.

As soon as the blonde was gone, I threw on a pair of pants and an undershirt and trailed out to the kitchen where I pulled out hte percolator, made coffee and drank two full cups before I finally looked up at Nicky, "All right," I rasped, "What?"

Nicky ground out her cigarette in battered ashtray, "Much as I always enjoy seeing your pillowy tits first thing in the morning, I'm here on business. Red sent me."

I ran a hand over my face, rolled my eyes skyward and groaned, "fuuuucccck."

Nicky was sitting at my kitchen table in her designer skirt and top, sprawled out like a slob, big brown eyes full of a little bit of amusement, a little bit of sympathy and a lot of serious. "You're nearly a month overdue, Vause. Anyone else, she woulda sent Vasily..."

I shuddered at the thought. Visits from Vasily were pretty fucking low on my wish list. "Fuck," I said again, shaking my head.

"Honestly, I thought you knew better than to get in deep with Red... Betting on the ponies never seemed like your game anyway..."

"It's not, but fucking Boo said it was a sure thing..."

"Mighta been if she hadn't come up lame in the last hundred yards..."

I put my coffee mug down with slightly more force than was absolutely necessary, "That fucking God damned horse! If I'd known how much that bitch was gonna cost me I would've turned her into glue myself..."

Nicky shrugged, "Well you already punched Boo in the face for the bad tip. What else you want?"

I looked up at her, trying to keep the pleading out of my voice, "Business sucks, Nick..."

She sighed, "Business always fucking sucks, Vause. You're barely making the rent much less enough to pay Red back..."

I shook my head, "What can I say, the adulterous wives of LA are all taking a break this month..."

"Not exactly dignified work, Vause," Nicky threw over a sly smirk, "Especially when half the time you fuck them yourself..."

I grinned, "I like a good challenge."

"You and your challenges are gonna get you killed someday. Red oughta just wait for some disgruntled husband to beat the shit outta you and get you fucking tossed in prison for leading their wife into temptation."

"I like to think of it as delivering them from evil."

"Your deliverance is illegal, in case you don't recall..." she looked at her watch, "It's 8:17am on June 10, 1954 and as far as I know the great state of California still thinks you fucking a woman is a jailable offense."

"Fuck the great state of California..." I muttered, feeling that old anger creeping up on me.

"And I thought I was bad," Nicky shook her head, "Why do you even do this PI shit? You could come work for Red and make more than enough to pay the rent..."

"Because I promised my ma I would be on the level," I said, looking at her seriously. "You know that."

"You're committing a crime by existing," Nicky said, letting a hint of bitterness creep into her otherwise perpetually amused tone. "Collecting for Red ain't gonna change that... and it's probably more socially acceptable to some..."

"I promised," I repeated stubbornly.

"And you think following bored housewives around is somehow gonna make her proud..."

"It's legal work."

"You just don't wanna disappoint your daddy..."

I gave her a hard look. She put her hands up in surrender, "All right, all right. You wanna be a marginally employed private dick I ain't gonna stop ya."

I wrinkled my nose, "Jesus Nichols. Don't call me a dick. That's disgusting."

"Yeah sorry. Didn't mean to be so insulting."

I sighed again, trying to put the full force of my sincerity into my eyes, "Look, gimme another week. I'll find a way."

Nicky sighed, "I figured you'd say that. Red says one more week. That's it. Then..." Nicky trailed off shrugging, "She said something about Russians and baseball, but I didn't really get that part..."

I nodded. Fuck.

As I slumped into my office chair I sighed deeply. Nicky was right. Business usually did fucking suck. And the kind of work I usually got wasn't exactly made for quick profit.

Nicky had woken me up at 8am which was about 4 hours before I liked to be awake, especially since the snoring blonde had kept me up until 5am. I was still exhausted and still hungover. I was half heartedly poking through the pile of bills on my desk and contemplating some hair of the dog to fight off the lingering hangover when I heard the outside door of my office open and close.

I frowned. Random business at 10am wasn't usual. For a split second I was worried that it might be one of Red's sons, coming to dole out one of their patented "reminder notices" despite what Nicky has told me about having another week.

Then I heard a female voice. Tense. Worried. Faintly annoyed. "Hello?"

I was so shocked at the thought of work I almost couldn't find my voice. I spoke up and hoped I didn't sound as wrecked as I still felt. "Back here."

I sat up straight, hastily swept the bills into a drawer, ran a hand through my hair, straightened my glasses and took a moment to thank God I had decided to wear something marginally professional today (gray skirt, gray jacket, white silk blouse...) even though I had barely felt human after emerging from the shower and had just wanted to throw on a pair of blue jeans and an undershirt.

The woman who walked cautiously through my inner office door was short, although to be fair everyone was short compared to me. She had auburn hair and brown eyes and her face matched her voice: wary, worried and annoyed.

She stopped short when she saw me sitting behind the desk. Frowning she said, "I'm looking for Alex Vause."

I raised an eyebrow. Jesus Christ her voice was grating. And the attitude didn't help either although I was used to the assumption by now. I counted to ten, repeated don't be an asshole five times in my head and plastered my best business smile on my face.

"You found her."

There was a split second of naked surprise on her face before she covered it up. I gave her credit for even making the effort not to look shocked. Credit she immediately lost as she cast her eyes around the office and got that "well this is a fucking dump" look in her eyes. I kept the smile but I could feel my resolve to be nice to her slipping. My office was far from fancy or even spacious, but it was what I could afford on my budget, and it was tidy and clean. The rest of my life may have been fucked but this I tried to keep as neat as possible.

"How can I help you?" I asked, faintly dismayed to find that my annoyance at her scrutiny had leaked into my voice. I mentally slapped myself. Stop it dumbass. This is a potential client... and a potential client means that you might not get your ass kicked later by Russian goons.

She frowned at me but walked into the office and took a seat gingerly in one of the chairs across from my desk. "Sorry. I didn't think you were a wo..."

"Yeah I get that a lot," I said, more sharply than I'd intended, cutting her off.

The woman's eyes narrowed but then she took a deep breath and I thought maybe she was trying to smooth out her own inner bitch.

I cleared my throat and tried again. "How can I help you, Mrs..."

"Harper. Polly Harper," she said looking surprised I was suddenly being professional. "And...my best friend is missing."

I frowned. "You called the cops?"

"Yes. But it's been going on two weeks and they haven't done anything. They don't want to do anything."

"Y'know, Mrs. Harper, I'm not one to turn down work but what makes you think I can succeed where they've failed?"

"Because maybe you'll actually do more than sit on your ass and offer me platitudes..." she snapped.

I half smiled. She had more fire than I had given her credit for. Even if she still seemed like an uptight bitch.

"You're the seventh private detective I've been to and they all refused the case."

I raised an eyebrow, "What? Why?"

"Because," she took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, "My friend is Piper Chapman."

I frowned, "Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"She's Councilman Bill Chapman's daughter."

Ahhh... the light in my head switched on and I frowned. Bill Chapman was big time, real big time. Been around city politics for nearly 20 years, and angling for the mayor's office next time around. The good councilman hated people poking around in his business. Hated it enough that those who did often ended up wandering aimlessly through the orange orchards short a few fingers or toes or eyes...

"Look I'm willing to pay you twice your normal rate. I just need to know someone's actually looking for her, actually making an effort. And even if you don't find her I'll have tried..."

I sat up straighter at that. Twice my normal retainer would pay off my debt to Red in on go... But the job... Missing persons cases weren't exactly my specialty, and they were usually impossible anyway. Plus, I really wasn't sure I wanted to be anywhere near Councilman Chapman's radar range... On the other hand it's not like she expected me to actually succeed...

"All right," I said after a long pause. I rattled off my rates and she didn't even bat an eye. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pile of bills and a slim file folder.

She counted out the amount I'd asked for and slid it across the desk along with the folder. I made a concerted effort not to sweep the bills up too hastily, picking them up with deliberate slowness, folding them over and putting them into the inside pocket of my jacket, silently thanking God for trust fund socialites. Then I slid the folder towards me. Well at least she was organized.

I opened the folder and the first thing I saw was a small picture of Piper Chapman. I picked it up and examined it closely. It was a formal portrait, like all the high society debutantes got. And she looked like a fucking movie star. Blond hair, with just the slightest curl, the picture was black and white but her eyes were obviously blue and her smile was like the fucking sun. I didn't think I had ever seen anyone or anything as beautiful in my life. It was like she was staring straight into my fucking soul.

Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to find Piper Chapman if only so I could see those God damned beautiful eyes in person...