Gumshoe

The broad who walks into the joint isn’t much to look at, but there’s something about her that demands attention. Maybe it’s the ‘45 in her hand. It’s still smoking. And the way her hand is trembling makes everyone in the bar duck. Well, I say everyone. There’s just me and the barkeep. And then there’s just me and the broad, because the barkeep disappears and don’t come back. So, I gingerly take the piece out of the broad’s hand, because from her appearance there’s likely no way she’s going to use it again, except by accident. In all my years as a Private Investigator I never saw such a look of terror on anyone’s face, and anyone that scared got no business being on the butt end of a ‘45.

I sit her down at the bar and, since there’s no barkeep, scoot over the counter and pour her a shot - a stiff one. I take one too, I figure I deserve it. Heroics don’t too feature highly in the life of the ordinary P.I. and I confess that coming face to face with a smoking gun scares the hell outta me. I toss the bourbon back and look at her sitting there on the bar stool, shaking.

“What’s with the gun, lady?” I ask, looking her over with a professional eye. First appearances can be deceptive, especially when you walk into a bar with a gun in your hand, that’s all you see, but take away the shakes and the haunted eyes, this broad is a serious looker. 

Turns out she also got a mouth on her. Now, if it was me the mouth was directed at, I would have smacked it, broad or not, but the picture she paints with it about the guy who the gun had been intended for excuses the language. Suffice it to say that it’s far from a pretty picture. Turns out she had missed, but the guy wouldn’t be sitting pretty for some time by all accounts. Probably not sitting at all. Ever again. Ouch!

Long story short: I take her back to the office before the cops make an appearance. It’s likely the barkeep has made the call by now.  Well, you can call ‘office’ a euphemism if you like, but all private dicks got to have somewhere to crash, right? And this broad really needs somewhere to crash because the plot thickens. She’s got people looking for her. Bad people. Bad people she’s got the goods on. Turns out she’s also got some goods the bad people want back. And to get them off her tail, she’s willing to share. Well, what’s a Private Eye with fiscal issues going to do?

-oOo-

In the morning, my head don’t feel so good. The empty whisky bottle on the bedside table probably has a lot to do with that. My back don’t feel so good either and a glance at the other side of the bed shows what the likely cause of that is as well. For the life of me, I can’t recall what she’s doing there. It’s all a bit of a fog. I find that lately. That’s why I started noting these things. You ever feel like there’s someone jerking your strings?

The dame stirs and turns over in bed and, boy, is she stacked? The flesh don’t settle for a good few seconds, which begins to do things to my flesh, despite the headache.

“Who the hell are you?” she shrieks, and covers herself up like all women everywhere do. Like it’s not as if I’ve been making free with them all night? “And where am I?” she gasps, looking wildly around.

Now, I find that decidedly odd. A dame walks into a bar with a smoking gun and then spills her life story out and comes back home with you? You would remember that, right? 

Hell, yeah, that’s right! I do remember why she’s here.  Of course I remember. How could I forget something like that? It’s sort of vague, but I remember. She doesn’t seem to, though. Maybe someone’s jerking her strings, too.

“Lady,” I say, “I’m not in the habit of picking girls up with a gun in their hand. I did you a favour taking you out of the game, last night.”

“Gun?” she says. “I’ve never touched a gun in my life. Who the hell are you? And why am I undressed?”

I toss my head and bark a laugh at her. “You want me to answer that?”

Anyway, another long story short: she remembers nothing about last night. Denies it all. And, funny thing, I remember putting the gun in my jacket pocket when I took it off her. And it isn’t there. And she’s freaking out and threatening to call the cops, so I let her get dressed, show her the door and look for another bottle of whisky, because I need a drink. Or perhaps I don’t.  Or shouldn’t.

-oOo-

I get to thinking after a couple of shots. This is happening too much lately. Either I’m going mad … or I am mad already. Either way it could explain a lot. I look at my watch. “Jesus,” I say, “I’m going to be late!” so I throw on my suit and grab my briefcase and I’m halfway down the stairs before I realise what I’ve just done and clatter to a stop. 

Since when did I wear a suit? Let alone carry a briefcase? And where the hell am I going in such a damn hurry? My time is my own unless a client is buying it. That’s why I became a Private Eye in the first place.  Then I feel an accustomed bulge under my suit jacket and when I look there’s this damn shoulder holster, fully packed! And it sure as hell ain’t the gun from last night because that was a ‘45 … and this isn’t. And I don’t carry. That’s a surefire way for a Private Eye to get careless.

Anyway, even longer story butchered to death: I let my feet carry me to this anonymous office block downtown wondering how to handle a damn briefcase - I like to keep my hands free. Seems like my feet know what they’re doing because they take me up 10 flights of stairs (the elevator’s broken … again … something seems to suggest) and deposits me in an equally anonymous office where this guy who I don't recognise looks up, grunts, and wordlessly hands me a package which my hands take and stuff in the briefcase before my feet about turn and take me back down 10 flights of stairs back onto the street, by which time  it looks as if the elevator is working again … until next time … that anonymous voice seems to say.

Perplexing doesn’t cover it, especially when I sit down on a park bench to take stock and notice a bracelet (that I don’t possess) on my left wrist, bearing  an excruciatingly embarrassing inscription from someone called ‘Julie’. A situation compounded when I look at the package this guy gave me and find it’s a bundle of large denomination notes, apparently for delivery to someone called ‘Gerald’ at an address on the other side of town.

Oh, and there’s a business card case in my jacket pocket identifying me as ‘William Smith, Financial Advisor’, which is so far beyond ironic as to be risible.

My name is Harry Mitchell. ‘Mitch’ to my friends - of which there aren't many. Always has been. And I’m a Private Eye - a damn good one and relatively highly regarded, famous even,  though I say so myself. And currently impecunious. Hence the dilemma I find myself in. The broad last night was my way out, although it seemed as if the plot changed at a stroke, and here I am now with a fistful of big ones that will see me out of my current fiscal problems. Except it won’t. There’s an urgent need to offload to this guy ‘Gerald’ on pain of kneecapping if not. 

Now, where did that just come from?

Wherever it came from, it seems like William Smith knows what's good for him because he takes off at the double and gets a cab to the scribbled address. 

Shorter story: when we get there, this Gerald guy don’t say much, on account of him laying there with a bullet in his head. Which leaves me in somewhat of a dilemma. On the one hand I got this wad of notes, on the other hand I got this threat of kneecaps and on the third hand - and it’s getting like that sort of a situation - my suit has turned into jeans and sweatshirt, the shoulder holster’s gone and so has this alter ego William Smith. And so has the bracelet. I wonder who Julie is? Lucky escape there. 

So, with nothing better to do than count the notes - roubles, by the way, probably enough to buy coffee and a donut -  I turn into this random bar and order a drink. There's absolutely no-one in there … except the barkeep, who keeps glancing furtively around. Fair puts the creeps on me. And then the door opens.

The broad who walks into the joint isn’t much to look at, but there’s something about her that demands attention. Maybe it’s the ‘45 in her hand … and, suddenly, I have this weird feeling of déjà vu - and know for certain that someone is messing with my head. 

My name is Mitchell, Harry Mitchell. I’m a Private Eye, And a damn good one. I’ve got a library of notable case files as far back as I care to remember  I'm famous. I got history.  Godammit, I’m in books! And when I find out who is pulling my strings …