Needless to say, the case of the Long-Distance Jumper didn’t go so well. About twenty minutes into my investigation that night, a real detective showed up and confiscated all of the cool things I had managed to put into little plastic bags. He then proceeded to lecture me on the consequences of destroying evidence and blah blah blah. Whatever. I decided to walk back to my office to have a scotch and soda.
After finishing my scotch, I cracked open a soda and took a swig. Bleh. It was root beer—not a good combination. I took a seat in my bitchin’ retro office chair and propped my feet up on the desk. The neon light from the strip joint across the street bathed the room in a soft pink hue. I kind of liked the effect, and for a moment, this made me wonder if I was gay.
That’s when she walked into the room. She was wearing a short, black raincoat and black heels that required a lot of balance to walk in.
“Mr. Keen?” she inquired.
“Who’s asking?” I grumbled.
“I’m Lorena Michaels. I require your services.”
“Have a seat, doll face.”
Lorena looked around the room. There were no seats to be found. Fuck. I blew that one. I quickly got up and offered her my seat. Lorena sashayed over and parked her caboose on my bitchin’ chair.
I started to pace around the room, because that’s what I figured I should be doing. “So what brings you here, Mrs. Michaels?”
“Ms.,” she replied, but she pronounced it as if it had nineteen Zs attached to the end of it.
“I see. So what brings you here, Mizzzzzzzzz Michaels?”
“I require your services.”
“Ah, that’s right. We’ve already established that. Well, let me explain my rates. I get $200 per hour. I play my own stuff. No Top 40 shit. If you want to hear Top 40, you need to find yourself another DJ.”
“DJ? I thought you were a private investigator.”
“Oh, well, that’s just a hobby.”
“I see,” She took out a cigarette and slid it into her perfect lips, letting it dangle just slightly from the corner of her mouth.
“I’m sorry. There’s no smoking in this building.”
“Uh huh.” She pulled out a silver lighter from her coat pocket and brought it to life with one sexy flick of her thumb.
“No, seriously, you can’t smoke in here.”
“Who’s gonna stop me?”
I looked at her and she looked at me and I knew I was powerless to stop her. Not because she had weakened me with her seductive stare. No, she just looked like she could kick my ass.
The flame licked at the tip of her cigarette until the end began to smolder. She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, creating an ironic halo effect over her head.
EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE EEEE! The smoke alarm shrieked, echoing off the walls.
“CAN’T YOU TURN THAT THING OFF?” she screamed.
“NO. IT’S HARD WIRED TO THE BUILDING!”
“FUCK! WELL, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”
“WHAT??”
“I SAID, I NEED YOU TO FIND SOMETHING FOR ME!”
“YEAH, I HEARD THAT. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO FIND?”
“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”
“YOUR BLACK WHAT-Y WHAT-WHAT?”
“MY BLACK LEATHER HANDBAG!”
“WHAT ABOUT SINBAD?”
“NO!!”
“I’M SORRY, I CAN’T HEAR YOU VERY WELL.” Actually, I could hear her just fine. I was only fucking with her head.
“NEVER MIND!” She stormed out of the room and slammed the door, leaving only me to listen to the wailing siren.
I reached into my drawer and pulled out my trusty sledgehammer (Not that the drawer was that deep. It had no bottom. See, I thought it would look funny if I opened this tiny drawer and pulled out a giant sledgehammer. Unfortunately, nobody was ever around when I wanted to do it. So, in hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have cut the bottom of the drawer out, since I had no place to put my pens and paper clips) and then I proceeded to beat the living shit out of the smoke alarm, taking out a good chunk of the wall in the process.
By the time I was done, I could see into the office next door. Those fuckers had G5s! And flatscreen monitors! Bastards. I decided to torch the entire building and go out for a Cherry Slurpee. Of course, in the process, I destroyed all of the evidence I had gathered as well as that really cool retro office chair I found at the flea market. But it didn’t matter. After all, I’m a fucking DJ. The private investigator thing? It’s just a hobby.
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