I sat there in the dark, the dripping noises flooding the whole of my hearing, the smell of dank decay wafting in waves over my body, listening for a noise that would tip me off that the night’s festivities were about to start, and all I could think of was, why, oh why, had I chosen to eat the pastrami on rye sandwich that had been sitting in my car the whole day.
* * *
It was Tuesday, just a normal Tuesday, like most Tuesdays, going along pretty smooth, which was why, by nine in the morning, I was thoroughly convinced that I was about to be bitch-smacked by fate. I don’t know about you, but when I have a good morning, when everything goes as planned, when everyone is where I think they are, and I actually make some progress on something before lunch, those are the days when you just know it’s coming.
I run a detective agency, see. And by run one, I really mean that I am one. I don’t have anyone else who works for me regular like. Sometimes I get lucky, or unlucky depending on your view point, and get a partner or two to help out, but usually it’s just me, Jimmy, and Bertha. And yes, one of those is my car and the other is my gun, and no I’m not gonna tell you which is which, so you can just keep guessing.
The case load for that day was pretty average, like I said a normal Tuesday. I had to interview a Vietnamese hooker down in the Fangorn district of the city, that took all of ten minutes. Those whores never know anything unless you shell out some cash, and even then I wasn’t convinced enough to drop more than a 10 spot. She told me what I needed to know though. The guy I was tailing had been in the district a lot lately, and in places where she would have seen him. Not too good a story I was building for his wife. I never know what possesses people to cheat on their spouses. You just end up getting caught. I mean I’ve never heard about an affair that didn’t end in some kind of tragedy, have you? No, right, I didn’t think so. I never cheat, myself, at least as far as I know.
After the interview, I wandered around the district a little bit, asking around and showing his photo, and then bam, outta the blue the guy just shows up. I was in the middle of unwrapping my sandwich, and he just drives up in his snooty-as-hell Prius, you know the ones all covered in the solar panels. He hops out like there’s nothin’ to do, and saunters into one o’ those dryad massage parlors. Now I’m not saying I’m judging or anything, in fact I’ve even gone in for one of those massages once, wasn’t half bad, but those dryads don’t have no sense of what is and isn’t off limits with us humans. Before you know it they’ve got your Jimmy Dean in their hands and their massaging it real nice. I had to end mine early, my guess is that this guy was probably in it for the full session. I re-wrapped the sandwich, gave it another five minutes, and walked over to the parlor myself. I asked the man up front, a strange looking oaky kind of fellow, tall as all get-out, like they always are, if he’s seen the guy that just walked in. He says he ain’t never seen him. Dear Diary: jackpot.
I wander back onto the street, tag his car with a tracer, and then look around at the buildings next to the parlor. A four story Starbucks? Perfect. And wouldn’t you know, after making the rounds and checking the windows, this guy’s is wide open. He must really not give a damn, that or he thinks he’s superman. I pull out the ol’ camera and start shooting away. After a certain point it was just money shot after money shot. I felt bad for the guy’s wife, but hey, at least I knew I was gonna get paid this time.
So I’ve got pretty much everything I need to nail this guy, and I’m folding the camera up and tipping my hat to the guy, when suddenly another guy walks into the room. Now granted, most people would be a little startled when someone busts the door in on him having a little too much fun with what amounts to being animated furniture, and the guy busting the door in is about 7’1’’ and green, but this guy’s face went as white as a sheet. He was scared and my bet was that he knew this guy. I quickly pulled both my camera and audio microphone out, and caught as much as I could of what was going on.
“You ratted us out Vince!”, that would be the irate orc talking.
“No, no you got it all wrong, the cops, I didn’t tell them nothin’. I swear. You know me, you know my word is good.” And that would be Vince. My tail. By this time the dryad had hurried out of the room, or melded into the walls…I still have trouble with that one. Freaks you out pretty hardcore the first you see one meld right into your hardwood floors in order to get to your downstairs bathroom faster. Either way she was out of the way.
“That’s not what our boy on the inside said, Vince,” said the orc.
“He’s lyin’, he’s settin’ me up,” Vince pleaded.
“Yeah, we’ll see, either way you’re coming downtown with me,” the orc said as he made to grab Vince. Vince then did something a little unexpected. He jumped out the window in his attempt to avoid the vice-like grip of the orc’s groping hand. You remember where I mentioned that it was a four story Starbucks? Yeah, we were on the third. I’m not sure what made better pictures, the splatter pattern or the faces of the beret wearing, scarf toting coffee suckers. Either way, I shot a lot of pictures of both of them. The internet’s a fun place, and there’s always someone looking for funny faced pictures to put quotes next to, and also some people wanting to put funny quotes next to pictures of a dead guy. That and I could sell the shots to the police, they love in-the-action photos.
Out came the cell phone. First the cops, not 9911, no, I was gonna call Franky Smith at the 43rd. He’s a detective friend of mine. Figured I’d tip him off about it, let him show up early to the scene so everyone’s all like “Wow Frank, you sure do know what’s goin’ on in this city.”
“Hey man, haven’t heard for you in a while. How’s it hanging?” he says answering the phone.
“Oh not bad. I’m standing on the third floor of a Starbucks lookin’ down on what remains of a cheating scumbag,” I reply.
“You don’t say.”
“No I don’t, and as a matter a fact I think this was a mob hit. I got pictures of the 7’1’’ orc that pushed the poor bastard out the window o’ one of them dryad massage parlors,” I say.
“Whoa, you serious?” he asks.
“As serious as your mother was last night. Get your ass down here and I’ll let you buy the photos off me. I just sent you a wave, get my location off that.” I say.
“Be there in a smidge.” He says.
The next call is to the wife. It doesn’t go quite as well as I had hoped. You know, I thought the fact that her cheating husband was dead would be good news, but sometimes you’re wrong about these things.
