Shannon Benjamin, PI

7

2007-04-04T20:52:00.000-07:00

This was much later than I'd hoped, but here it is. A new character gets introduced and I hope you like him. Again, any comments are more than welcome. If something is anachronistic (in the wrong time period), I'd love to know.
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Inspector Johnston, if nothing else, is an honest man; and so I believed him when he said I was going to remain in the cell until he’d sorted out the murder of Agnes Wolfe. Fortunately for me, I managed to get a phone call placed to Marion and quickly told her that ol’ Leon was up to his old tricks again, and I was going to be at what I call my “summer home” for a couple of days. Marion, God love her, rang up the Priest, and he came on down to visit me. One of the privileges of the clergy, I suppose, is that no one really wants to risk eternal hellfire by fighting with you. So, a few hours after I first arrived at my summer home, I heard the very familiar voice - laden with expletives and tinged with the last remnants of an Irish accent - echoing down the stone hall leading to my cell. I just smiled and lay as I was on my bed, hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling. The Priest was here to spring me, yet again.

Sean Patrick Fitzgerald was born and raised here in Milwaukee, but his parents were born in Ireland. So, his accent isn’t really his, but is one he inherited from his family. He wears the collar of a priest - and he earned that collar by taking the Holy Orders from the Catholic church in Rome. Not that he’s ever been to Rome. Hell, I’m not even sure he knows where exactly on a map Rome is; he just refers to “Mother Rome,” from time to time, and people just nod reverently. People always nod reverently around Priest; to avoid the aforementioned hellfire, but also because there is a pretty decent chance they’ll get thumped on the forehead with a hard knuckle and asked about the state of their eternal soul that they would refuse to listen to a man of the cloth.

I stayed on my bed until I heard the metallic tapping of a ring against the bars of my cell, closely followed by a loud, “Are you going to layabout, my son? Faith, sloth is one of the deadly sins, you know. Have some care for your eternal soul, to be sure.”

“My eternal soul? Well, I don’t know much about that sort of thing, Priest. All I know is that my eternal soul’s earthly body and mind would very much like out of this box,” I replied wryly, sitting and then standing up. “So, unless you know a prayer to get a man our of a metal cage, maybe you’d like to see if your dear and fluffy lord can work me a miracle.”

A big toothy grin broke out on Priest’s face and he said, “That is His forte, after all. Maybe it will be like Saint Paul and Silas in prison. Earthquake, and the door swings open!”

I just rolled my eyes.

Priest walked away, but was gone only for a moment, returning with a different officer than the one who put me here. “My son,” he said to me, “this is officer Earthquake.” And then Priest laughed. His laugh sounds like an avalanche of mirth; it starts quiet, as though it was far off in the distance. But it isn’t at all, it’s just building momentum until he’s guffawing loudly, head tilted back, mouth wide open, whole body spasming with the effort of it all.

I just rolled my eyes.

The officer, perhaps worried that there was some sort of exorcism about to take place, hurriedly opened up the door and beat a path down the hallway. The iron bar door creaked noisily and clanged when it struck the barred wall, a sound which I believe roused Priest from his giddy laughing fit. “Oh, you’re an absolute card,” I said drily, “Mass with you must be a laugh riot. How did you get him to open the door, anyway?”

“Few people want to risk excommunication, my son,” Priest began, “and fewer still want to risk my left hook. No one ever sees it coming, but it often makes very profound arguments. Now, let’s get going. I may minister to those who are in chains and prisons, but that doesn’t mean I feel like spending my night here, to be sure.”

The thing about Sean Patrick Fitzgerald is that, for all his talk about one’s
eternal soul, he’s just as likely to call you a damned fool as he is to pray for you. He’ll hear your confession, but if he sees you doing that very thing later in the day, he is not above shaking you by your shoulders until your head hurts and you cease whatever sin you’re in the process of committing. He spends most of his day not in the church building, but seemingly wandering around the neighbourhood; dispensing wisdom at Nick’s, haggling over fish, playing baseball in the street with children, and even pummelling wouldbe purse-snatchers with the bat he was just using for baseball. Whatever kind of priest he actually is, it’s a fair bet Rome has no idea just what they signed up for when they gave him his collar. More’s the pity, too. A priest like that could make a man want to stop in at a church and see what sort of hellion from below he does battle with when he’s actually in the office. I have nothing bad to say about religion; it does for many people. Me, I have faith of my own. And right now, I was feeling pretty convicted that I hadn’t spent any time with Pastors Jack and Daniels.

Priest and I walked out of the Police Station and paused under the overhang which covers the stairs. “One more thing,” he began, “you owe me $3 for the cab ride over here. You can pay me in four visits to Mass, or live the rest of your life knowing you owe a man something.” He wore that smug grin he gets whenever he knows he has you, and he knows you know. Thunder suddenly rolled from above - a sign from On High, perhaps - and muted my bitten off curse.

“I’ll tell you what, Priest,” I replied with a grin, “If this rain doesn’t stop by the time I get this case solved, I’ll see you at Mass for a month. See if God will punish a whole city just to get one lapsed soul into His house.”

“Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God,” Priest quoted at me, just before we headed out into the rain once more. Just when I thought I might be dry. Fortunately, Fargo was waiting where I had left her, and she started just the same as she did when I parked her there.

I dropped Priest off at Nick’s - perhaps there was some wisdom that needed dispensing - and headed back to my office. Since the only time I’d ever seen Agnes was in my office, it was the only place I had to begin. I did the backstroke from the now-invisible curb to my office building door and headed upstairs. Once inside my office, I hung my drenched coat on the tree and looked around. The police, while thorough, were not apparently much for leaving a place as they found it. My papers were everywhere, my drawers had been emptied onto my desk’s top, the chairs were upended and scattered, and my closet looked like someone had decided that everything inside needed to be aired out for spring. And, on top of all of that, they had decided to leave my window open.

I cleaned up a little, corrected my chairs, and then sat down at my desk to collect my thoughts. As it happens by beautiful coincidence, I collect my thoughts best when there’s a glass of scotch in which to catch them. I was also going to need a few belts of scotch in me to write a properly enraged letter to the Milwaukee Police Department regarding the shoddy work they did in cleaning up my office. Ransack it if you need to, but courtesy is courtesy.

Unfortunately for me, I had precious little time to collect my thoughts, enjoy my scotch, or write my angry letter. My pen was out and at the ready when my phone rang. I could tell I needed the drink because I was so startled I proceeded to spill half of it on my wrist. A private eye shouldn’t jump at a phone ringing, that’s just not natural.

I answered the phone and all I heard was, “Lakefront. One hour,” before the line went dead. The operator was no help in tracing the call, either. Just one more angry letter I needed to write. But not now. If I didn’t hurry, all of Milwaukee was going to be Lakefront property, the way the rain was coming down. I half-hoped Priest was building an ark; not that I thought I would be one of the very righteous who would be saved, but I figured watching that crazy man build a gigantic boat out of gopher wood might distract me from the miserable rain.

6

2007-03-18T22:42:00.000-07:00

I wish this had been written a long time ago. I have no excuse, but hope you'll read and enjoy. One thing that I have changed is that Ben fell asleep for more than just a moment before the phone woke him - it's now very early in the morning.
My plan is to update this thing again by Wednesday. I'll see if that happens.
Once again, your thoughts are welcome and invited.
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The police station is an old brick building that looks as severe on the outside as it tends to be on the inside. The dark grey brick has an austere appearance, one that is not helped even a little by iron bars over the windows, not to mention the brigade of officers in the near-black navy blue of the Milwaukee Police Department uniforms. A more humourless group of people you would probably be hard-pressed to find at a funeral, and in the rain that continued to pound the city, everyone was in an even worse mood that they usually were. Not that anyone should fault them for being in a perpetually bad mood; spending time with people like Inspector Johnston would sour even the cheeriest of dispositions.

We pulled up along the submerged curb in front of the wide stone steps to the wrought-iron front doors and sprinted from Fargo up the steps to the cover of the building. I decided that any time that the rain wanted to stop would be perfectly fine with me. I half expected mermaids to greet us everywhere we went. I probably could have made a break for freedom if I'd wanted to, since I don't think anyone would have tried to stop me aside from Inspector Johnston, but the truth is that I wanted to figure this whole thing out. Even though the good Inspector regularly accuses me of some sort of misdeed, it never made another incident less interesting; the hazards of being a snoop for money, I guess. There may not be any mermaids, but a good mystery is like a siren’s song to me, and I’ll crash on the rocks to figure it out. Splashing our way up the stairs, I listened to Inspector Johnston mutter a few colourful phrases under his breath about the weather just before we slipped inside. For some reason, that made the rain seem a little less oppressive to me.

"This way, Benjamin," the Inspector said to me as we got inside, taking hold of my left elbow in a grip that, while not uncomfortable, let me know in no uncertain terms that he was going to make sure I didn't slip away. He guided me toward the interview room and I smirked as I said, "I appreciate the tour, Inspector, but I know the way. If I'd wanted to sneak off, I could have done so already. Mind laying off on the grip? I'd hate for some of your colleagues to think I was under arrest or in trouble or something. That sort of rumour can really hurt a guy’s reputation."

The inspector didn't relent on the grip. He just said in a tone that suggested he was looking at something particularly unpleasant, "They already know you're trouble, Benjamin. My making certain you don't duck out on what we've got to do is no surprise to them."

"Gee, Inspector... Do you think perhaps they also won't be surprised when I solve the case for you and you take the credit? That is, after all, the way things have gone in the past."

Johnston opened the door to the interview room and pushed me inside. Wearing a derisive smile, he said condescendingly, "You're not under arrest, Benjamin. I just have a few questions about a dead body I need you to answer. And you're going to answer my questions, too."

I looked around the room and let out a long breath. Interview Room 1 is about as charming a place as it sounds. To describe it as "spartan" is to suggest that the Spartans were in the business of boring rooms, hot lights, and dingy green paint. The room is not big enough for more than four people, really, and there was no doubt where I was going to be; the rickety wooden chair tucked in on one side of a table with more initials carved in it than a shady tree in the most beautiful picnic spot in the world. No hearts dug into this wood, though there was a very witty limerick about dear Inspector Johnston. I was surprised he hadn't had the table replaced, but was glad each time I saw it; Marion would have been crushed to learn all the work we had done trying to rhyme "incompetent" was for naught.

“Alright then, Inspector,” I said, folding my hands neatly over the punchline of that limerick, “let’s talk about this dead body. I assume that you’ve already sent it to the morgue, since you usually need someone else to tell you that someone’s actually dead and not just asleep. You suggested I killed this person on the phone.”

“Oh, laugh it up, Benjamin,” Inspector Johnston said with an irritated tone and a frown to match, “but I’ve got a corpse in a white dress with your business card in her purse. Pretty thing, too. Well, she was, until someone decided to kill her. Now, I like you for that particular job. I figure you made some sort of attempt at getting to know her, she slapped the taste out of your mouth as any lady would, and you lost your temper. One thing led to another, and she winds up dead. If that’s what happened, we can work with that, you know. You might not get the chair.”

I knew the moment he mentioned a white dress that he was talking about Agnes. I rarely forget a face like hers, and never a body like hers. The white dress just sealed it for me. I started to reply our conversation over in my mind - all the talk about someone following her, and her fear of someone hurting her, the tears and all of the rest came flooding back - but I couldn’t come up with any good explanation as to who had done anything. I just hadn’t had enough time to sort that part out. Damn, was it really just last night that I’d had that conversation? It suddenly felt like weeks ago.

Inspector Johnston’s patience was especially short today. Rudely, he derailed my train of thought by slamming his open palm on the surface of the desk and saying in a loud voice, “Dammit, Benjamin! Don’t go off daydreaming now! Didn’t you hear me? A woman is dead, and she has your business card with her! Now, tell me what you know about it!”

I wanted to hit the Inspector. Specifically, I wanted to punch him in the mouth so that it could close and I could have a moment’s peace with my thoughts. I just looked at him and said in a really quiet tone, “If you’ll give me a second, Inspector, I’ll tell you what I know. Maybe if you did less shouting and more thinking, you’d solve more cases and wouldn’t need to drag me down here in the rain.” He didn’t like that response, to be sure, but he did stop talking. That was good enough for me.

“First off, I didn’t kill that woman. Her name is Agnes Wolfe. She came into my office and asked me to follow her around for a little while, starting today, actually. She seemed to think someone was after her, and wanted me to see if I could figure out who. That she’s dead tells me she was right, and that the person or persons got a little jumpy when they saw her talking to me.”

Inspector Johnston looked at me, got real pensive for a moment, and then said, “Interesting tale. Tell me, Benjamin, you carry a gun, right?”

“You know I do,” I replied with a nod. That sort of thing isn’t exactly hard for the Police Department to find out, especially since they issue my detective’s license, and they like to know which PI is packing heat.

“A... .38, as I recall,” the Inspector continued. I didn’t like his tone. It was the sound of a man who knew more than he was letting on, but wanted the person he was talking to twist in the wind a little, maybe reveal something that can be used as a noose.

“Cut to the chase, Inspector,” I said, irritated. I wanted to figure out Agnes’ death more far more than I wanted to be sitting here being interrogated.

“Fine,” Inspector Johnston said, “I’ll cut to the chase.” He moved around from the other side of the table from me, to stand at my right side. He leaned in on the table until he was about eight inches from my face. Looking hard into my eyes, he said, “You have a .38 registered to you. We figure she was killed by a .38. You were the last one we know who saw her alive. This doesn’t take a genius to sort out. So, we’re going to go looking through your office and your apartment until we find that .38. You had better hope we find it. Now, I know yours is not the only .38 in the city... but I like you for this, Benjamin. I really do.”

Funny, I thought, I’m having a hard time liking you at all, Inspector. Instead, I just said, “Listen, feel free to go through my place and my apartment. You should find the gun in my desk at work, top drawer, left side.”

“You don’t carry it with you? That seems a little strange, especially for a man who has made as many enemies as you have, Benjamin. I would have thought you would give that some consideration. Walking around without your piece can be hazardous to your health.”

“Maybe, Inspector. But it seems to me that, at this moment, you’re the only one who isn’t locked up and who sees me as an enemy. And we both know that I wouldn’t be long for the world if I used my .38 on you.”

Inspector Johnston just nodded slowly, still leaning in far too close for my preference. He continued to stare at me for a long moment before stepping away and opening the door. Calling in the officer, he said, “Take him to a cell. Lock him up until we sort this out,” and then he left.

I shook my head and rose slowly. With a smirk, I asked the officer, “Can I at least get my usual cell? Third on the right, I believe. It’s set up just the way I like it.” The uniformed young man looked at me, no doubt confused as to what I could possibly mean, since all of the cells are exactly the same. He just took my elbow and all but dragged me off. At least he gave me the cell I wanted. It was a lot like a third home....

5

2007-01-06T22:39:00.000-08:00

Awfully sorry that this has taken so long. I've been on vacation and watched a lot of television. I think that watching television might actually sap creativity. At any rate, here is the newest installment. Questions and comments are more than welcome.
Someone asked me how long this was going to be, and so I'll say that this is not going to be a book. But probably a short story. Maybe, if this first one doesn't suck out loud, more than one will be written.
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I dropped Marion off at her apartment building and watched her sprint the three yards from the curb head up the short flight of stone steps to her building’s door. Inside, she waved at me and I pulled back into traffic and headed to my own apartment. Fargo rumbled down the drenched and flooding streets with ease, leaving a couple of waterlogged drivers - in new cars, I might add - on the sides of the road, literally in her wake. I took a moment and smiled in appreciation of my trusty steel steed. A couple of years ago, I worked a case for a little, twitchy fellow who wanted me to catch his wife running around like he suspected. I caught her alright, with his brother, the mailman, and... well, sufficed to say, she was definitely not staying true to her vows - unless her vows included rampant infidelity, in which case the husband really had no business hiring me in the first place. He took everything they owned, set fire to it on the front lawn and then the house, and told her he was divorcing her. As payment - the crazy bastard burned all of their cash, too - he gave me what he called, “the one thing that’s been faithful,” in his life; Fargo. I almost told him to keep it, since the thing looked about ready to die, but he insisted and so I took it. I was on my way to sell it to the scrapyard the next day, but a cold snap had swept through town and it was there to stay. I got into Fargo and she started up without a hesitation. She continued to do so all week long. Nothing else was starting, just Fargo and I. That’s when I named her Fargo - after the North Dakota city I got stuck in once in the middle of an ungodly cold streak. I thought it was about time to redeem my feelings about the name. Ever since, Fargo’s never been stuck in the snow, never failed to start in bad weather, never stalled, nor ever needed any real repairs; which is good, since I can barely afford a shave, these days.

I navigated the near-canals back to my apartment building and pulled a U-turn to park along the curb. With a resigned sigh, I opened the door and back into the monsoon, trying to make it across the street without being swept away. I swear I saw a couple of Rainbow Trout swim by, likely heading for the Pacific to see the sights. Drenched again, I muttered under my breath and fumbled with my keys before heading into my building. Up the rickety stairs quietly lest I give away my presence to my landlady - I still owed rent from last month, and she was starting to give me the Evil Eye and make all sorts of wicked-looking gestures at my back - and into my apartment, I breathed a sigh of relief. Made it through another day without getting shot at, evicted, or stabbed by a woman you’ve looked at the wrong way, Ben. Good work, I thought. I tossed my coat onto the coatrack, hung my wet hat on the hook, tossed my keys and my wallet onto my small table and headed over to see about a drink. No food, of course, but a bottle of scotch should get me through. I loosened my tie and undid the top button on my shirt as I picked up the bottle with just a little of my drink remaining. Shaking my head slowly, I made a mental note to spend some of the money Agnes was paying me on more scotch. Oh, and maybe some apples. Bottle in hand, I moved over to my favourite chair - it’s only one of two in the whole place - and sat down. Damp weather is no friend to my bum knee, so it was nice to just relax, bottle resting on my thigh.

I almost fell asleep, I guess, because the ringing phone caused me to jump, which caused my bottle to fall to the hard floor, and the impact caused it to shatter with that sound that only breaking glass - and the breaking of my heart at the waste of good scotch - makes. I snatched up the receiver angrily and said, “What? What do you want?” So much for people skills.

“Benjamin? That you?” The voice said. I knew that voice all too well. Inspector Leon Johnston, Milwaukee Police Department.

“Yeah, yeah. What is it, Inspector? You’re calling awfully late to check on my well-being, though I appreciate your care.”

“Can it, Benjamin. This isn’t a social call. This is just a call to let you know that you’ve stepped in it deep, this time. Don’t go doing anything stupid like leaving your apartment, we’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“So you bothered the operator and made me spill my scotch just to gloat? Come, come, Inspector. That’s not very neighbourly of you. Surely you’ll at least do the right thing and offer to buy me a new bottle to replace the one that you caused to be taken from me.” It was worth a shot. I figured the odds were better that he would show up in a ballerina’s tutu with a bear on a chain in tow, but something had to go right this evening.

He laughed. Of course he would laugh. The man couldn’t appreciate good scotch to save his badge. “You’re dreaming, Benjamin. Not only do I think you’re just looking for free hootch, I don’t tend to buy drinks for murderers.”

That focussed my thoughts in a hurry. Things suddenly got real serious, real fast. “Now wait just a minute there, Inspector. You’ve got some crazy idea. I think all the rain has gotten into your head and shorted out your brain.”

Inspector Johnston was serious as well. I could just picture his brow furrowed and his beady black eyes looking hard at the wall as he spoke to me. “You just save your wisecracks, Benjamin. I’ll be there in 20 minutes and we can sort it out in person. You just make sure you don’t go and do something stupid, like... leave town.”

“Oh don’t worry, Inspector. I’ll be here,” I said, just after he hung up on me.

I sat down in my chair, once more, but this time there was no thought of sleeping or drinking. Murder, he said. Sure, there have been people I wouldn’t miss if they got whacked or met with an unfortunate accident, but to actually go out and do the deed myself? That’s not my style. I shook my head a couple of times and then waved my hand in the air as though dismissing the whole incident as if it was a fly buzzing around my head. No, this was just another incident that ol’ Leon was going to try to pin on yours truly because I was the most convenient person for him. Still, this was a puzzle that was going to take some figuring.

The buzzer from downstairs dragged me kicking and screaming from my figuring and I headed down the stairs to open the door and admit Milwaukee’s Finest. Well, one of Milwaukee’s Finest, and Inspector Johnston. “Gentlemen,” I said with something resembling a smile, “give me a moment and I’ll grab my coat and hat. I assume that I’m going with you? I don’t have any thumbtacks or rubber hoses in my apartment, and I know how you have ways of making people talk.” The officer barked a very short laugh, but Inspector Johnston was wearing his usual mask of poor humour.

“Make it fast, Benjamin. I don’t have all night,” he ordered, and then gestured with a tilt of his head for the officer to accompany me back up to my place. We headed back up the stairs - I walking softly and the officer having no concern for getting the attention of my landlady and walking with heavy steps. She must have decided to drink herself into dreamland again because she didn’t stick her head out to shout at me. I hoped that wasn’t my one thing that was going to go my way, because it was a lot like winning ten cents in the lottery.

Inside my place, I set about gathering up my things. “What’s the Inspector’s beef, officer? Or has his normally abusive mood soured even further?”

The uniform smiled a little and replied, “Well, no one likes this rain. And no one likes working in this rain.”

“Tell me about it,” I replied in something just louder than a mutter. “I don’t suppose he’ll let me wait until my coat dries out? Can you think of something worse than putting on a wet coat?”

“Putting on wet underwear, for one. And no, I don’t think the Inspector is going to be willing to wait. Hell, I’m surprised he hasn’t -“

”What in the back room of hell is going on up there? Schultz, you get him down here on the double, I don’t care if he’s coatless and you drag him by the scruff of his worthless neck!” came the bellow from below.

I rolled my eyes and said to Office Schultz, “You were saying?” I picked up my hat and set it on my head. I stepped outside and headed down the stairs, saying with a wry smile to Inspector Johnston, “There we are; presentable as I’ll get. No need to be in such a rush, Inspector.”

“Yeah, you look real pretty. Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re the belle of the ball down at the death house. Which is where you’re going if I’m right,” the Inspector spat.

“Have some faith, Inspector. You’re almost never right,” I replied as we headed out into the rain once more. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to his car, opened the back door, and all but threw me inside. Officer Schultz sat down in the driver’s seat and, once the Inspector was all settled, turned the key. The car made all manner of sounds that indicated potential, but, like most of my romantic life, never got beyond that.

“Is there a problem, Inspector,” I asked, far too politely.

“Shut up, Benjamin. Schultz, what’s the problem now?”

“I think there’s too much water, Inspector. It won’t start,” Schultz said helplessly.

“Move over,” the Inspector ordered, and all but pushed the officer out into the rain to stand on the curb with the door open. Inspector Johnston tried to get the car started, but he had just as much success with that as I’m sure he has with women.

“Inspector,” I began from my place in the back seat, “I am no mechanic, but I think it won’t be starting any time soon. If you want to call for another car, we can use my phone. Or, we can use my car. I don’t mind.”

“Sir, I think that either of those would be a good idea,” piped in Schultz, who was now taking on a drowned rat appearance.

I could tell Inspector Johnson was not enamoured with either of those options, and I could also tell, even from my back seat view, that he was steaming behind his furrowed brow as he stared holes through the rain. “Fine,” he said, “we’ll take your car, Benjamin. But you’ll ride with me in the back. I don’t want you to get any funny ideas about bailing out.”

So, we sledged our way through the water to Fargo and piled in. The car smelled of wet hair and clothes and the windows began to fog almost immediately. Officer Schultz started Fargo without hesitation and soon we were off, heading through the night to the police station.

“Wipe the smile off your face, Benjamin,” Inspector Johnston ordered.

“Was I smiling, Inspector?” I responded. “I didn’t realise. Must be the irony of being taken in for questioning in my own car because the shiny new police cruiser wouldn’t start. I’ll stop smiling.”

Officer Schultz didn’t, though, all the way to the station.

4

2006-12-10T00:24:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-01T15:36:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-19T21:36:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-16T18:24:00.000-08:00

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.