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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.