A Numbers Game

718-555-4357.
Here's the thing about being a snoop. As long as you keep your head buried in information, for whatever purpose, you're bound to find a bunch of things that don't matter at the time. You dismiss it but your memory doesn't let you. The number she gave me had a Metro Town area code, but the city had changed the area code when it incorporated two other districts earlier this month. Last job I had was looking up a city councellor who'd been getting threatening letters but didn't want to go public 'cause of the bad press. He was pushing for incorporation, a popular position at the time, but evidently someone didn't like it.
The number was useless but this dame was hiding more facts than a rainy Saturday night. I pocketed the note, grabbed my coat, and left the office.

Fate's Rabbit Hole

Sometimes real life, as much as you try to avoid it, sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Not to mention when you don't want it. Sitting in my office tonight, rain pouring down like it was setting a score with someone who owed it money, lights off, nobody even knowing I was here, made me foolishly think I might avoid the persistant sense of humor of Fate. Can't escape your destiny, no matter how hard you try. Mine was to get involved in something I knew, without being told any details or given any instructions, wouldn't be solved in a few hours.
The body of Abraham Marley, full of bullet holes, sat on my desk daring me to ask about it. I didn't bite, preferring the picture to tell its own tale. It didn't bite either.
"I found it on his coffee table," the dame finally said.
"Talk."
"I'm Vanessa Marley, his daughter. I came home and found this picture."
"Any broken windows, locks? Anything else lying around that shouldn'ta been?"
"Just the picture."
She suspected her father's partner, that much was clear. I'd had enough run-in's with the local P.D.s to know that solving murders was their turf, and it was a stadium I didn't have home field advantage on. They'd already be looking for Rothschild too, assuming they even knew yet.
"Did you call the police?"
"No."
"Why not."
"I just didn't."
"Gonna need a few more details hon."
"That's all you get, you're the P.I., you figure it out. I'll be in touch."
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a piece of paper and tossed it on the desk. All it had was a phone number. She stood up and left the office. As I heard her footsteps grow softer, I reached over and grabbed the phone number she left. Except it wasn't a phone number.

Red Lips

"Your walls need painting," she said.
I looked at her from behind my desk. Tall broad, but not too tall. Black hair, brown eyes, real looker. She wore red lipstick, not too much, but it stood out like it was the only color in the room. Nice trenchcoat too, a Danilli from the looks of it. Fine lookin' dame, but she didn't rile me nothing. She shook out her soaked umbrella and came inside.
"Have a seat," I said.
She didn't say anything as she sat down. Pulled out a cig, lit it, inhaled and breathed out slowly.
"Want one?" she asked.
"I quit."
"Too bad."
She took another puff and looked out the window behind me then put out the smoke in my ashtray. I waited for her to speak up, tell me what was more important than the blackening night.
"I need you to find someone" she said finally, "and I want him found soon."
"Finding ain't hard. Soon will cost you."
"Money is no concern."
She held my stare evenly, but I could see the beginnings of emotions inside her welling up. Whether they'd come to the surface or not I'd hafta wait.
"Who ya need found."
"Donald Rothschild III."
"CEO of Rothschild & Marley Inc. Didn't know he was missing, papers woulda been all over that."
"He's not missing."
"But you need him found."
"That's right."
She hadn't looked away from me during the whole exchange. I sat back in my chair and thought. Rothschild was a big name in town, head of the biggest chemical testing plant in the state. Well-liked, good reputation from his charitable donations, but most of his donations were the political kind. Had a freeway, a hospital wing and a football field named after him. Finding him wouldn't be a problem, avoiding his name is the real trick.
"Look him up in the phonebook, always works for me."
This wasn't a case, it was a waste of time. I started turning around to face the window, signaling our conversation was over when she stood up, reached into her purse, and slapped something on my desk. I was a polaroid. I picked it up. I recognize the body right away.

On aardvark and swarmy night

It was cold out. Not cold in a chilly way, but in the kind of way that makes your senses sharp. Crisp, my ex-wife used to say. She walked out on me eight years ago. That night was cold the same way tonight is, only then I was sitting at home with a bottle of Jack. Now, I'm drinking it at the office, waiting for something to walk through the door. Pay the bills, you know. The name's Keaton, Roger Keaton. I'm a P.I. Tonight I'm investigating nothing more than how much longer the rain's gonna come down. The answers ain't there and I confess to not lookin' too hard. Rather than strain myself for answers, I keep looking out the window from my chair, back to my desk and the world inside. Looking's too strong a word, since the night's rainfall seems more like it's looking at me, but without anything to say. I stare back but between me, the bottle and the weather an agreement is made to mind our own business.

Then I hear them. Noises I haven't heard in a few days. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Moving slowly but taking each step lightly. Now they come down the hallway and stop at my door. I stay still, waiting for my guest to come to me with news of the outside world. A moment goes by and I wonder if they've lost their nerve. Two knocks, the first softer than the second. Late on a Sunday night, what would make them think anyone would be here?
"Come in."
I hear the door open but I don't turn around. What's the hurry, they've come all the way here, it must be important I ask myself ruefully. I turn around slowly from my window to face my guest. I look around but they're still standing in the hall, out of sight. The lights are off so I can't see them. Movement now from outside, the shadow of a jacket, or a dress, flicker against the old walls. Damn they need paint. One of these days. Around the doorframe she came in to my office, and I knew the night was going to pick up.