The year was December 17th, winter to be exact. Outside my office it was a wet, dark afternoon—the type of afternoon you don’t bring home to meet mother. Inside I sat, drowning my sorrows in my signature cocktail, scotch and cup, when she walked in.
She had a body that could get glue off and legs that went on for miles. Her face could make all the holy angels in heaven really really horny. Her shoes didn’t match her dress. She came in frantically saying something about how her sister had gone missing after hanging around a “bad crowd” and she wanted me, the city’s only private detective open past 5pm on a Sunday, to track her down. The girl had gone bananas… But maybe just banana enough to get me out my slump. Looked like my bucket of bourbon appletini tonight would be a double.
I told her the only thing she had to fear is that I would find her too fast, or that she was already murdered. Either way I would need some time to get the facts straight and a stiff gin and tonic—shaken, hold the tonic. The girl’s name was Bella Boscoe, and her sister’s name was Stella Scoscoe, a real twisty gal who lived downtown and hung out at a dirty joint called “The Punky Puss.” I checked around and apparently she’d been dating Slim Jim Jackson, a hefty fella who went by the name of “Husky Joe.”
I walked into the club to be greeted by the stench of vomit, coming from my vomit-covered jacket. Half the town was at this watering hole where a lady with fruit on her head was singing about some guy who left her. I would have to use all the skills I had learned over the years in order to remain unseen and quiet—too quiet… After snooping around the room for a bit I found Husky Joe, sitting at the craps table, bragging to his goombas about all his favorite crimes. I ordered a whiskey and vodka neat at the bar and inconspicuously stared at him unblinkingly waiting for him to make a move. He finally stepped out into the alley for a smoke, so I followed behind and once we turned off the strip, I fired two warning shots directly into his back.
“Freeze, punk!” I shouted as he dropped to the floor out of fear and intimidation. Then I questioned him for half an hour. He wasn’t budging. This guy was good. But I noticed something in his criminal pocket. A love letter from Stella Scoscoe. My dearest Joe, I’ll love you forever. If we’re ever separated, I’ll always return to the old meat freezer from our youth. Always? That was tonight!