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.