4

I couldn't sleep, despite lying in bed. So, here it is. Also, I changed one aspect of the encounter with the client to include Agnes taking one of Ben's business cards.
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I sat there, at my desk, looking across at the lovely Marion for a moment before I started to speak. Well, I really only did just start because I had to stop and shake my head a little when that wry little smile of hers didn’t just not leave, but grew even more pronounced. It’s hard to focus on telling a good story when the listener is sitting there, looking as though she were reading your mind. The cat that swallowed the canary had nothing on Marion when she was doing that thing she does. It’s hoodoo, I say.

I reached into my desk drawer and produced two glasses and a bottle, with just a little remaining in the bottom; just enough for two glasses’ worth of scotch, as it happens. I poured a little into the two glasses and gently nudged one across the desktop to Marion, who took it in her slender hand and tipped the glass back, sipping the scotch slowly. “Are you going to tell me this story any time soon darling, or shall I wait here in suspense until I grow old and grey? Really, for someone with so many adventures, one would imagine you’d be better at telling them to beautiful women who are actually interested in listening.”

I chuckled softly and picked up my own glass, turning it slowly in my hand and looking at the lone light dangling from the ceiling through my drink of choice. “Patience, Marion, is a virtue,” I said with a sidelong look her way, and a playful wink. “And since you seem intent on keeping me waiting for something I believe will be truly captivating, I think it’s only fair to leave you in a little suspense.” But only a little. I did want to tell her, after all, and Marion has a bad habit of getting up in the middle of my stories and going to do something completely unrelated to how I saved the day. And if she were one speck less beautiful, she might not get away with it so scot-free. Knowing better than to press my luck, I told her about Agnes and the job she had for me. I mean, I didn’t have much to go on myself, so there wasn’t a lot to tell Marion. “So that’s it, really. This dame wants me to see if I can sort out who wants to kill her, which she is convinced is the case. And if she’s willing to pay me to figure out that no one’s really trying to kill her, then that’s fine by me.”

Marion smiled brightly and her soft laugh warmed the room. “Shan, you would do anything for a beautiful woman, or money. Sounds like this one’s got both. Just be sure that you keep your head in the game, and not in trying to tussle with the client,” she said. There are very few people in this world who know my real first name, and even fewer who get to use it without getting a poke in the nose for their troubles. My mother - God rest her soul - was one, my sister in Virginia is another, and Marion Clarke. Leon Johnson knows it, but he also knows better than to use it in anyone’s hearing - he learned that after I let him know that I did a little learning of my own regarding certain indiscretions with a certain daughter of a certain prominent politician.

“Your advice, especially when paired with that smile of yours, is always welcome, love,” I said back to her, “but I’m pretty sure I’ve got this one figured out. It’s likely just some fellow who has an interest in the beautiful Miss Wolfe but who can’t muster up the gumption to do anything but follow and admire from a distance. Call it a hunch.” And when you’re a private detective, the hunch is the best tool in the box.

“You have the worst record for hunches in the history of this fine city, my dear,” came the reply. “I think you’re in this gig because you don’t play well with others - which rules out the police force - you’ve taken too many fists to the face to be much to look at on the big screen, and you’re not lucky enough to be much of a professional gambler. Being a private eye is all you’ve got left, especially since it’s not likely you’ll be marrying rich.” Oh, she was desperately in love with me. It was shameless, really, how she flirted with me. It was equally a shame that she just couldn’t admit the truth of her feelings to herself. Can’t say that I was overjoyed with that inability, myself.

I feigned a little hurt. “First my car, then my hat, now a full-out assault on everything I am. Let’s see; you’ve called me ugly, stubborn, and unlucky. A guy can really get his feelings hurt with friends like you, darling.” I flashed her a momentary smile before I drained my glass in one fell gulp and then leaned back in the chair, making it squeak once more, just for effect. “Listen,” I said then, “I think it’s about time we get something to eat. What do you say? You can tell me about dear Leon as we go.”

Dear, sweet Marion - vestal virgin herself - drained that scotch just as easily as I did and then rose with all grace expected of a vision. “You just can’t handle that the truth hurts a little more than you’d like, Shan. But it’s okay. I still love you, even if you are an ugly, stubborn, unlucky man who is rounding a little in the middle.” She gave me a wink that sent shivers up my spine and froze me in me in my tracks for just a moment and then headed over to her coat and waited for me. I, of course, regained my composure and helped her with her coat, tossing my own once she was ready. With my hat on my head, we headed out into the rainy streets.

Fortunately, my car was parked just across the street, so we built a raft out of driftwood and made our way over there. The current was a struggle, but we made it safe and sound and soaked. Fargo, despite the wet weather, started up with that familiar rumble that always brought a smile to my face. A good car, my father used to say, is better than money in your wallet or a woman on your arm. The woman tends to leave when the money’s gone, and the money’s gone just as soon as you get your hands on it. A good car, though, sticks with you even when everything else is going wrong. Fargo was my father’s type of car; reliable as the rain is wet. Shifting it into gear, I asked, “Well, where to?”

I knew the moment I asked that I wasn’t going to like what she said. I just knew the second the words left my tongue that she was going to suggest - no, insist on! - the one place I can’t stand: Barney’s. And, sure as the sun rises in the east, that was the word out of her mouth.

“No way. Not a chance. I am not going there again! We talked about this the last time we were there, Marion. The food is awful and the waitress is rude and the decor reminds me of the men’s room at the train station. Anywhere but Barney’s, please!” The last time we were there, the waitress and Marion spent the entire evening trading insults... directed at me. They were a regular laugh riot, a two woman roast of yours truly. I don’t think they left one piece of me unflayed. If I hadn’t been brought up to not hit a woman, they each would have gotten a poke in the nose for their trouble. Well, my upbringing and the fact that this waitress looked like she could go five rounds with any boxer in the circuit constrained me.

Marion just looked at me, big eyes simply staring holes in me. Warm holes, too. I swear, the War in Europe would be over in short order if everyone was forced to spend 15 minutes with women like Marion staring at them. There’s no real defence against that wile. I protested more loudly. “I’m deadly serious, Marion. I’m not going to Barney’s. You’ll just have to choose another place to eat because that is an absolute impossibility.”

The James Braddock-like waitress was clearing my plate and commenting about my hat for the third time in 15 minutes about thirty minutes later. She’d done it again, and she hadn’t even said a word. There I was, sitting across from Marion at Barney’s, wishing I hadn’t tried the Salisbury steak because I was pretty sure it had more of whatever a Salisbury is than it had steak. Marion, however, was smiling that crooked smile of hers and sipping her coffee casually, taking all the time in the world. And why not? She didn’t have some hulking waitress debasing her at every opportunity. At least my dear Marion wasn’t joining in this time. Dames... they’re more dangerous than a loaded .38, but nowhere near as obvious.

3

I changed the client's name. She's now known as Agnes Wolfe. Sorry this installment was late, but I'll try to make it up to you by posting again tomorrow.
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I moved back around my desk and sat down in my chair. The springs squeaked softly, a sound I was so used to that it was more like the familiar murmur of a friend than an annoying noise from an old chair, as I leaned back and laced my fingers behind my head as I thought about the job. Well, specifically, I was thinking about the woman who was paying me and the money that job would bring in. Alright, even more specifically, I was thinking about using the money to buy something to drink with Agnes. Maybe down at Nick’s. Of course, then he would want some of that money... Maybe not down at Nick’s, since I suspect my tab could easily swallow up my incoming funds. I made a mental note to look into whether I really was a drunk.

I don’t really know how much time passed with me sitting there, daydreaming, but another knock at the door startled me almost as much as the previous one did. Two in one night... things are beginning to look up for ol’ Ben, I thought. And, like so many other hopes and dreams, this one crashed into the rocks of reality in short order as my door was opened and in walked Marion Clarke. Don’t get me wrong; I like Marion plenty. She just never tends to need any services of mine that I can charge her for. Friendship may not be free, but it's hard to write a receipt for.

By the look of her dripping mauve overcoat and soaked matching hat, the rain hadn’t let up since I got back to my office. And, by the look of her irritated expression, my dear Marion was none too happy about that fact. Her usually mischievous smile was replaced with an annoyed frown, her smooth brow now crinkled by a frown to match her mouth. Even her makeup had begun to run - just a little - and I knew that would make her even more displeased with the weather. Dames can be so vain.

“Marion,” I said warmly to her as I got up and moved toward her, “now what’s got you out in this ungodly downpour?” I paused, sensing something was wrong. “Pardon my saying so, my dear, but you don’t look like a person who is especially glad to see me. Aren’t we friends anymore?” She never could resist my charm.

“You rat!” she said with heat in her voice and a spark in her eye. Then she took off her wet hat and proceeded to hit me in the face with it, just once. “I’ve been waiting down at Nick’s for more than an hour! And here you are, tucked away in your warm and dry office all this time. No doubt dreaming about some damsel in distress who needs your help. There I was, sitting there like a dope when Nick said you’d come back here a couple of hours ago and that he figured you weren’t going to show your face around his place again tonight. I waded over here, you know.” Dames... they’re so irrational. Just because a fellow loses track of the time....

“Hey now,” I begged off, raising my palms to her and taking a step back, “I had a meeting with a client just after I got back. I didn’t know what time it was. Honest, Marion. You know I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch like that. C’mon... you know me better than that, I hope? Still, I’m sorry that I forgot. No need to get violent, though. You’ve got a heavy... something on that hat.”

“A client, eh?” she began, skepticism dripping from her tone, “And just who was this mystery client of yours?” She untied her coat and took a few steps toward me, predatorial look in her usually soft brown eyes. “I wonder if I’ll find this client of yours in the desk over there. Perhaps she’s all dressed up in her finest glass slippers - or just a few glasses.” She paused and then everything was fine, it seemed. Her expression was smooth and she even smiled that slightly crooked smile of hers at me and then she said, “You owe me, Shannon Benjamin. You owe me for making me sit in a bar for an hour and then making me wade down the streets to find you.”

I knew what that meant. At least, I knew what that usually meant. I was buying, wherever we wound up going. I walked over to her and took her coat from her, saying softly into her ear, “You know I’m happy to repay my debts, baby. Especially if it’s a beautiful woman who holds my marker.” Especially if it’s Marion who holds that marker, I thought. There’s no one - man or woman - who has a hold on me quite like she does. She makes a man want to be a better man just to be around her. And she was apparently immune to all of my charm.

She looked at me over her left shoulder, that crooked smile tugging the one corner of her mouth even higher as she smiled and then laughed softly. Turning from me, Marion touched my cheek with her soft hand and said lightly, “Darling, you wouldn’t even know where to begin with me. You just concentrate on repaying the debts you owe to balding bartenders, and I’ll concern myself with anything you might owe me, and how they might be repaid.” Turning from me, she wandered around my office a little before settling into my guest chair, gracefully crossing one leg over the other as she said, “Now, about how you’ll be making it up to me for being so inconsiderate and forgetting about me. I believe dinner is in order. And we’ll be taking a cab, too. I don’t want to have to wade through the streets of Milwaukee, and I don’t want to ride around in that... jalopy of yours.”

Oh, she was trying to get my goat and she knew it. And I couldn’t even avoid responding, either. “Hey now,” I began, hanging her coat on the coat rack by the door to drip a little drier, “you leave Fargo alone. She might not look like much, but she’s outlasted every other car on the road so far. And she’ll keep going, too.”

“That car is almost as old as your hat, my dear... and neither are very stylish anymore. Why not see if you can trade it in for something newer, and sleeker? Actually, see if you can trade both for newer models.”

“Oh, now my hat is also unable to match your high standards, Marion?” I moved to take my seat behind my desk, letting the squeak take a little longer than usual. I knew how she hated that sound, and I saw her wince a little at the hearing. Deep down, I smiled; I wasn’t foolish enough I smile outwardly, though. “You’re really riding me hard, here. My hat is a lot like Fargo; sure, it may not be the newest model, but it fits just right, it’s standing the test of time, and the price was right for each, free. So, I’ll take you to dinner, sure, but we’ll take Fargo or walk. And that, dollface, is a deal-breaker.” I laced my fingers together and put them on my desk as I leaned forward a little, coaxing a soft but audible squeak from my old chair.

“Fine, fine,” she said with an amused grin, “I’ll let you drive me to dinner in that old clunker and wearing that old hat. But I get to choose where we go, alright?”

“Certainly,” I said with a magnanimous tone, feeling very much like the winner in this little exchange, “that’s only fair. But there’s no rush just yet, is there? Give your coat a chance to dry out and my eyes a chance to enjoy the sight of you. It’s hard to get used to seeing a face like yours when you’re looking at a mug like mine all day in the mirror.”

“Don’t I know it,” she quipped with a sly smile. “Alright, we can wait a little while. You can tell me about this client and the job she - I presume it’s a woman, judging by the way you’re trying to charm me - wants you to do. In return, I’ll tell you all about what Leon was up to today.”

Leon Johnston. A poster child for raising the standards of entrance into the Police Academy if there ever was one. Hell, he presented a strong case for outlawing... Leon Johnston, really. Inspector with the police department and one fellow I wouldn’t hire to hand out parking tickets because he’d find some way to blame it all on me. To be fair, I can’t really fault him for not being my biggest fan. It must be hard to constantly have your job done for you by someone who doesn’t have years of experience bungling police matters. I can see how my ability - and his near constant inability - to solve the tough cases could be a burr under his saddle. I just wished he wouldn’t pin every murder he didn’t have a clear suspect for on me. Somehow, it always came back to me, in his mind. Marion worked down at the police station, as the receptionist, officially, and as my informant, unofficially. She was equally good at both.

2

Okay. So I'm going to try to post my installments a minimum of once per week. Feel free to look over the grammar and spelling if you'd like, but what I am really interested in is comments about descriptions and plots and dialogue. Tell me if my characters suck, for example, of if I'm using metaphors that are confusing and/or inaccurate. Thanks, everyone.
Chris
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I moved toward my chair as she paused in the doorway, and by the time I was taking a seat, she’d begun to move into my office more properly. Well, I should say that she was entering my office proper, because the way she was moving certainly wasn’t doing much for my sense of propriety. She had a face that makes your mouth go a little dry to look at it, and your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth when she looks at you. And believe me, I was doing plenty of looking. This vision had hair the colour of spun gold, cut short to her jawline, peeking out from beneath the low brim of her white hat. Two big blue eyes threatened to drown me as she looked at me, and the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her ruby lips. That sort of smile someone gets when they’re not especially happy with the majority of things going on in their life, but they think they’ve found something that can help. It’s almost grim on most faces, but on her... I think I might have missed the first three words of her opening line.

“...Benjamin? A detective?” She was saying. Her voice could melt butter, and was about as smooth. She could call a man the worst names in the book and have him thank her at the end for it. She stepped up to the other side of my desk and waited there, left hand moving to her coat pocket.

“That’s me,” I managed to reply after loosing my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Strange how that thing needs to be moving in order to speak, and how much work it was, in my case. I rose from my seat and offered with one hand to my guest chair. That’s why it’s there, after all. “How can I help you, miss....?”

“Wolfe. I’m Agnes Wolfe,” came her silky reply as she took the offered chair. Gracefully, too. I wondered if she dances, but that was more academic than not; I dance like a water buffalo. Sure, the buffalo can move, but it’s not really a pleasant sight and he usually winds up doing damage; that’s a fair assessment of my skills as well. “I need to hire you, Mr. Benjamin. I want you to find someone.”

“Agnes,” I said with a small smile, “you don’t deserve that name. You don’t look like any Agnes I’ve ever met.” She just smiled shyly at me and then I continued with her question, saying, “Simple enough,” as I took my seat, “who is it that you’d like found? Husband, boyfriend?” I opened up the narrow middle drawer of my desk and pulled out my notebook. Might as well look the part of Private Eye.

Her blue eyes looked down from me for a moment - from embarrassment or something else, I couldn’t tell - and then she looked back up and in a serious tone, replied quietly, “No, Mr. Benjamin. I want you to find the man who’s trying to kill me.”

“Well now, that’s not so simple as finding someone you already know. What makes you think someone is trying to kill you, Miss Wolfe? I mean, that’s a pretty serious claim to level at someone, even if you don’t know who it is.”

“I.... just feel it. Like I’m being followed. But when I look around, there isn’t anyone following me. No one’s made any attempts on my life or anything. I just.... I just know that someone’s trying to kill me.” Her voice trembled a little and he blue eyes looked down. She could have told me that if I were to punch old Pops in the teeth she’d smile again, and I would have done it. Nothing is more trouble than an angelic-looking dame; I can’t resist them even an ounce. “I didn’t think you would believe me, either. No one does. They all think I’m crazy. My friends and family, the police, the three other detectives I spoke to before coming here. They all just nod and smile and tell me that if I get more sleep and see a doctor, I’ll feel better.”

“Hey wait,” I began, “no one’s saying you’re crazy. Hell, I’ve seen all manner of strange things happen in this line of work, had clients who were actually crazy. One guy swore he was being attacked at night by an organ grinder’s monkey.” I smiled my most comforting smile. Smiling at her was as easy as breathing. “I was just looking for more details, is all. So... you’ve felt like you were being followed. Is there any particular time this happens? Any specific place or day? How long have you felt this way?”

She exhaled a little and then said softly, “I’m sorry. I... get defensive about this. I know I’m not crazy!” She raised her voice a little with her last assertion, but took a moment and collected herself. I can’t blame her, I wanted to collect the whole set of her. “I guess I started to notice feeling like I was being followed about three weeks ago. It’s only been really strong the past week or so. Which is why I’m worried that maybe whoever is following me is going to hurt me. I don’t sleep, can’t eat, and... well, I’m beginning to think if this doesn’t stop soon, I will go crazy. Please, Mr. Benjamin, you have to help me.” She began to cry, then. If there’s one thing I can’t be around, it’s a beautiful woman who’s crying.

I got up from my chair and moved around the desk to lean against its edge near her left hand. I offered her my handkerchief and touched her shoulder as I said, “Now there... no need to cry. I’ll keep an eye on you as you go around, and I’ll see if I can pick anyone out of the crowd who might be following you, yeah? How does that sound as a place to begin? Really, there’s nothing to cry about. And call me Ben. My friends all do. ”

She looked up at me, eyes still wet with unshed tears and gave me the tiniest smile that I thought I’d missed it, and thought my heart would stop at the same time. “Ben,” she said quietly, and I never thought I’d hear so sweet a sound, “sure. I feel so silly crying about this. I’m not some little girl who needs protection. I just didn’t know what else to do. Thank you for helping me.” She cleared her throat - and even managed to make that sound angelic - and then asked, “About your fees?”

I nodded just once and said to her, “Well, we don’t need to discuss it now if you don’t want to. I usually charge $10 a day for something like this, and usually stipulate that if I can’t figure it out within five days, then there probably isn’t anything to find. And you can pay me at the end, too.”

“Just five days? What if I want to hire you for longer? To be sure, I mean.”

“Miss Wolfe,” I said with a hopeful smile, “you can hire me for as long as you’d like.” I wanted her to hire me forever. I’d follow anyone for $10 a day. No reason to tell her that, though.

“Agnes, please,” she corrected with a warmer smile. “When do we begin?”

“We can start in the morning if you’d like, Agnes. Unless you’re worried that someone will try something tonight? It’s not even,” my watch is broken - another casualty of my lack of work - and there are no clocks in my office for some reason, “well, it’s not so late. But I’d be happy to take you home, if you’d like.”

“You’re sweet,” she said as she stood slowly. I could smell her perfume - jasmine - and it nearly knocked me over, “but just knowing that we’ll get this solved tomorrow; well, I feel like a new woman already. I’ll meet you at this address tomorrow, around 10.” She reached past me, electricity crackling silently over my skin as she gets close, and wrote down an address for me on a piece of paper, leaving it there for me to look at later. Which was fine by me because I was too busy looking at her right now to be bothered by any silly paper. About the only paper I was thinking about was the money I was going to earn by being around this woman... and that made me the luckiest son of a gun this side of Lake Michigan.

“Sure,” I said quietly, the words almost a low rumble, “I’ll see you there at 10.”

Gently she touched my cheek with her gloved hand. My breath caught and I wasn’t quite sure whether it would ever come back to me. With a look that threatened to melt me into a puddle like the ones I tracked up the stairs, she purred, “See you tomorrow, Ben,” and then headed back towards the door. I hated seeing her go, but I certainly did enjoy watching her leave.

1

Sometimes a man just has to drink alone. Which is how I found myself sitting at the bar down at Nick’s. Lately, though, it seems like this man just has to drink alone more often; four times this week by my count. I was beginning to wonder if maybe I ought to just make it official and move my office down here. I was here already, and there were more people walking through his door than had walked through mine in more than a week. That’s the thing about being a private detective; when no one needs anything detected, bills don’t stop coming in. In a fit of utter inhumanity, no one whose bills I’ve been ignoring seem willing to get paid when I do. Even Nick was starting to get a little grumpy, and he’s usually pretty good about my tab.

“Listen,” Nick started, wiping a wet glass with the towel he keeps stored over his left shoulder, “I’m as generous as the next guy, but I’m starting to get offers made on your tab. People are really interested in this thing, until I tell them that it’s not a new type of brick, and it’s not a new phone book.” Oh yeah, Nick’s a part-time comedian. Really part-time. It’s a good thing he’s relying on his ability to mix drinks rather than his comic delivery to make a living. “So if you’re ever interested in thinning out this volume, I’m happy to take your money. Besides, you’re setting a bad example for my clientele.”

I set down the scotch I’d been nursing for the past hour and looked around the bar. To my left was three people. The fellow with the red hair and the drab clothes who sat at the bar three stools down looked like he finally lost the race against the Sandman - half-asleep with his forehead on the top of the bar. Tucked in the left corner, where the light was always bad, were a man and woman in coats still soaked from the rain outside, obviously scheming something up that would no doubt leave someone else wondering who had taken him for a fool and been right. To my right was... no one. The rest of the bar stood empty, the unmatched tables and the dim lighting complementing each other to make a really cozy - if wholly unoccupied - atmosphere. I was reminded of a time a few years ago when the dartboard had a waiting list almost as long as the waitresses’ dance cards. The only difference now was that the dartboard was still there, and the waitresses had left long since.

“Oh sure,” I replied drily, “real pillars of the community you’ve got here, Nick. If I’m a bad example to this lot, society is in real trouble. Hell, compared to this group, I’m a shining beacon of community spirit and responsibility.” I took a sip of my scotch, letting it burn my throat a little as it went down. Nick’s got a great sense of humour and care for his fellow man, but poor taste in scotch. He must buy it in bulk from a company that makes batteries - tastes like acid.

“Seriously, Ben,” Nick said, leaning in a little closer, “You and I are good friends, but even friends have to pay up from time to time. I’d hate for this to come between us, you know? What with you owing me money and me breaking your thumbs because of it. Can but a damper on a really good relationship.” I could tell he was only half-joking. I just wasn’t sure which part he was joking about.

“Look, work’s been bad lately. Actually, work hasn’t even been lately. You know me, Nick. When I get paid, I pay my tab. Hell, I pay you before I pay my electric bill.”

“That’s just because you can drink in the dark, but I don’t know the last time you read anything more involved than the newspaper. You’re an alcoholic, not an admirer of literature.”

“Hey now, that’s just dirty pool. No sense in calling your best customer slanderous names, Nick. A guy might take that personal. Especially when it’s paired with threats against the well-being of his thumbs.” I took another sip, wondering whether maybe he was right. Just because I spend more time in his heap than in my office, that can’t mean I’m really a drunk. I feel fine, at any rate.

Nick laughed that dry laugh of his and set aside the now dry glass and reached for another, wet one. Resuming his absent-minded motions, he replied, “Best customer? Ben, last time I looked up the word, ‘customer’ referred to someone who paid for goods or services. You haven’t paid for either in too long for you to be called a customer, let alone my best.”

I could tell there was no love for me here. A fellow can tell. It’s in the way Nick was wiping that glass. Oh sure, we were old friends going back years - since he moved his bar into this neighbourhood that also houses my office - but I was beginning to work his last nerve. Just for the sake of a drink, I needed work and fast. Maybe I am a drunk...

I tilted back my head, taking with it the rest of my scotch and set the glass down on the bar top with a wince. I never liked leaving a bar before I was done, but I figured that between the quality of the scotch and the diminishing quality of the owner’s favour toward me, I was done - I was just done before I wanted to be. I made my pleasant exit, receiving a dismissive wave and a, “Yeah yeah,” from Nick and then headed out into the street. The weather lately was not cooperating with those of us who chose to walk more often than drive. It was pouring rain - still - and the roads were quickly beginning to look more like the canals Venice than the streets of Milwaukee. I paused in Nick’s doorway to turn up my collar and then hurried down the sidewalk, stepping lightly to avoid the deeper puddles, but still quickly getting soaked from the waist down thanks to the rain. I ducked under the awning of a closed pharmacy to catch my breath and murmur a prayer to whatever deity is in charge of the rain to quit fooling around and move on. Surely they needed more rain somewhere else - Chicago, for example. Or Seattle - I heard it rained there more often than not. No sense in drowning me when there are other perfectly viable targets. I adjusted the angle of my grey hat toward something more suitable for carrying the rain away from my warm neck and then darted back out onto the sidewalk for another stab at negotiating my way back to my office. I was doing alright, too, until a considerate fellow in a dark sedan decided to test out his whitewalls at high speed and drenched me from head to toe. Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the hottest hell is a place reserved for people like that, I was sure.

I arrived at my building and squished and squelched my way up the stairs to the third floor, leaving behind a mess that I was certain Pops, the building caretaker, was not going to appreciate. I was already in a mood foul enough that I couldn’t have cared less on pain of death. Turns out that it’s hard to get a key into a lock when you’re wet and angry at the same time. Took me three tries before I managed and then stepped inside. My office isn’t much. That’s pretty much the whole story, there. A desk, a chair, a guest chair, a lamp that I think I found in a garbage can one day when I was following a woman’s husband; it’s not pretty but I don’t need much. Which is good because I sure was getting what I needed.

I hung my coat up on the hook on the wall and added my hat the collection. Muttering fond words for the heat of the place in Hell reserved for my hydrological assailant, I went for my closet where I kept a spare change of clothes. I learned early on that having a change of clothes in the office was definitely worthwhile. I was getting changed behind the screen when there was a wholly unfamiliar sound, one that caused me to jump a little. A knock at the door. At my office door. I figured it was either my lucky day and someone needed my services, or they’ve read the “Private Eye” sign on the door incorrectly and were hoping for an eye doctor. I called out for the knocker to come in and hurried to fasten my belt. It was getting easier to fasten, too, with my lack of work and corresponding lack of suppers. I was just stepping out from behind the screen when the door open and in she walked. Damn. Where I was hoping for a client, this one’s got trouble written all over her. You can always tell the dames that will get you into trouble when you’re a private dick - they’re dames. Breathing or not, easy on the eyes or not, it makes no difference in the amount of trouble they’re going to cause; just the variety.