Sunrise of last resorts

There was too much sun shining through the streets for my liking. It'd been a long walk back from downtown, and even from the rear seat of my empty subway car I was feeling pretty exposed. Too much to think about, and yet for a private investigator I had very little information. A brown-haired broad, daughter of Abraham Marley, a guy I'd never met whose partner leased his office overnight to a couple of low-level street archetypes. And this phone number, which wasn't even current, had only been a mild curiosity in my desk drawer until it beat me over the head, and the rest of me, with its apparent importance. That headache wasn't getting any better either, the kind only a Jack and a broad can give you, or take away. That was the plan now, as the train slowed to a stop. Few more blocks back to the office and I'd figure out the next move, unless it'd already been figured out for me.

* * * *

I closed and locked the door, hung up my jacket, and drew the blinds closed. Without a steady rain to soothe my mind it was better being in the dark; what did I want with an interrogation lamp from another morning sun come too soon. This was softest my chair had ever felt, a hard plastic with only a thin cushion but it felt like a Serta after a night that long. I closed my eyes and I tried to stir the facts together, but all I was getting was a half-baked mess. I couldn't concentrate at all, it was like trying to keep water from going down the drain with your bare hands. There was nothing that made me want to stay involved either, no money down, no real case and, it seemed, no more client. That was a thought I could cling to, that there didn't seem to be any reason to stay involved in this mess. I sighed. So was this thing over?

The number. Right. Skinny sure seemed to think I knew something, and even if I didn't it sure seemed like I had something whose importance I should know. I leaned forward and opened the top drawer. I only kept three things in that drawer and each of them helped me feel better in a different way. Now, though, it also had a piece of paper that only made me feel worse. I stared at the open drawer, wondering if I should just get rid of it. Shit. I reached in and pulled out my glass and a bottle. Jack never did give good advice and I didn't want to hear it when he spoke, but I always felt better after listening for a while. It's been along night when the first one goes down that easy, and I was pouring a second before the bite hit my empty stomach. That's a pang Jack only hits you with in the early morning, a reminder that you shouldn't call on him with a full day's work still ahead. I listened and held back on the second round. I pulled out the piece of paper with the phone number on it and tossed it on the desk. Leaning back on the chair and holding my glass, I stared at it, hoping it would tell me what it wanted. If it was talking it was doing it pretty quietly and my attention was drifting into blackness. Hell with it, I thought, there's no money down.

A knock at the door, in my dreams at first but eventually on my office door. The fog cleared and I waited to see if it would mercifully leave. Mercy wasn't in the cards, and more knocking had me reach into my drawer for some backup. I flicked the safety off but waited in my chair, staring at the door and daring it to open. Silence. I waited a little longer to be sure, finished my drink, and walked to the door. Nobody in sight through the peephole, so I unlocked the door, opened it a crack, and eyed the empty hallway. Empty, except for a white box tied with a red bow. Shit. I checked the hall again, nobody, and brought the box inside and locked the door. Looks like a deposit was going to be put down after all. Shit.