Bad Memories, and Closure. (Hard-boiled Detective / Crime Noir. Pazzo and Catarina.)

[Pazzo]

As far as detective office's go, the one for "Arlan Rosin, Private Eye" was about what you might expect. It was long and narrow, the walls sheathed in a yellowish wallpaper with a repeating paisley type pattern, with the occasional vertical stain from a water leak from the ceiling. Along the left wall was a row of older, dented file cabinets, upon which sat a black metal electric fan that was scraped to its base metal in more than a few places. Along the wall opposite of this was a worn, brown leather sofa. The hardwood floor was swept clean, with an older, red and beige rug in the center.

Upon this rug were two worn leather metal framed chairs facing a huge, heavy wooden desk who's varnish was cracking in a few places. Upon its surface was a fresh newspaper with the headline "Senator found dead!" right next to an ash filled glass ashtray, with more than a few bent and smashed cigarette butts pressed into it. A lit cigarette rested there, a thin wisp of smoke rising straight up to flutter and dissipate halfway up to the ceiling. Next to this ashtray was a half drained bottle of whiskey, next to a low-ball glass, with a thin trace of the whiskey around its base.


The blinds upon the large window at the back of the office were dusty, and only halfway closed. One could see the night rain spattering upon the panes of glass, with the occasional flash of light from a passing car down on the street below. Seated in front of this window was an older grizzled gentleman dressed in slacks and a button up shirt, with suspenders, and wearing a shoulder type holster harness. Seated within it was a classic 1911 style .45 automatic. His old friend from the recent war, that had once saved his life.

He thought back to his life's events and choices that led him to this moment in time. He thought of those many cold nights in the French mud, under a rainstorm just like this one, following behind the M4 Sherman, holding his M1. The detective ran his fingers through his close cut salt and pepper hair, as he glanced over to the corner of his office, where that same M1 sat ready at a moment's notice. Arlan hadn't needed to use it in the past ten years, but a little healthy paranoia kept him alive.

He stood up to his full height, his body toned and athletic under his clothing. His face was a little raspy, having not shaved in a few days. It was nice to finally have a day off. He had a string of successful cases behind him, the majority being the usual jealous wife wanting dirt on her cheating husband. Small time stuff, but it kept the lights on, and whiskey on his desk. The detective reached for his cigarette, and brought it to his lips.

Arlan closed his eyes as he felt the warm tobacco smoke hit his throat and fill his lungs, tingling them with its heat and texture, feeling the rush of the nicotine entering his blood stream. He opened his eyes, and let the smoke start to waft out of his mouth, before inhaling it in a little deeper. He walked over to the blinds, and pulled them down gently with his muscular finger. There was a charming little diner nearby across the street, and it looked like they were still open. His stomach rumbled a little, as they had excellent pot roast.

He oriented his lips to the side, and exhaled a stream a white smoke off to his left. He reached for his hat and coat, only to stop. The glass upon his door rapped three times, and then rattled a little. His hand instinctively went to his 1911, only to remember he was safe, in his office. There was no threat here. Yet. He just sucked in a breath through his teeth, as he saw a silhouette upon the frosted glass. Someone was here to see him.

Arlan called out in his deep, raspy voice. "Come in, it's open."

 

[Catarina]

Catarina had left the diner about 20 minutes ago. The night had been slow because of the torrents of rain falling down upon the dark streets of the city... if only said rain would wash away the filth, but alas, not even a deluge could clean the city off the crime and sin that ran through its veins.

As she stepped out to wait for the cab, she gazed into the sewer grid next to her. The sound of water was soothing to her. She forgot about the rain, watching the occasional leaf or cigarette bud racing along the road just to be swallowed by the sewer grid. It put a smile on her face as it took her back to her childhood, days filled with hope and innocence, as she would watch leafs race along streams or rivers while playing with her friends and siblings.

Her attention was brought back to the harsh reality as the cab arrived. She wasted not a moment and got in. She reached into her grey raincoat and brought forth a card out of the inner pocket, on it was the name of a Private Eye. She handed it to the cab driver without uttering a word and off they drove. She remained silent for the ride, she knew exactly what the cab driver was thinking... what men in general thought of her. There was no way she could hide the fact that she was a lady of the night, after all, why else would a woman be out this late and by herself?

It hadn't been her choice, but she did no longer mind it. Most men who would seek out her talents were rich businessmen with coin to spare and with a wife at home, so it wasn't really sex that they were after. Catarina would indulge them and let them live out their wildest fantasies, the things they were unable to indulge in at home. Bondage, femdom, oral sex... those were the fun and easy ones, but then there were the other types... the ones who had no wife, or just plain hated women. Catarina had more often than not fallen victim to those. Men who would not take "no" for an answer, men who would rough her up, oh yeah, she had learned how to hide black eyes and bruises. What could she do? Go to the coppers? Half the men who would seek her out were cops... they were the worst, if only they would pay up before leaving...

As the cab came to a halt in front of a building, Catarina looked out the window. The light was still on. She handed the driver the money and stepped out, back under the cold rain. She ran towards the door and pushed to enter. She shook herself off the rainwater and stepped towards to the mailboxes to figure out the floor.

The apartment building looked like it had seen better times, it clearly fit in the part of town it was located. Door after door, floor after floor... Catarina soon found herself in front of an old, wooden door with a glass window, "Arlan Rosin, Private Eye". A figure could be seen moving inside.. She slowly raised her hand and knocked on the glass three times. Her heart was beating, she knew that there was no turning back now.

"Come in, it's open", she heard a manly, raspy voice break through the silence. She did as he said, gingerly turning the doorknob until the door slid open by itself.

The odor of cigarettes greeted her instantly. She made two steps and stopped in her tracks, slowly looking around the room. It was dusty and damp, filled with furniture that had seen better days. But after coming in from the rain, it certainly felt welcoming.

Catarina's eyes were on the man in front of her. She knew him. She had no clue it was him she was seeking out. They weren't friends or anything, she would sometimes have a drink at a bar between lovers, or after her night was over, and she would see him there. They had exchanged some words, some light chit-chat, nothing more. Obviously nothing that would have asked for them to exchange names. Just two strangers killing some time together, sharing a moment together so neither would feel so alone.

A car drove by, the light shining through the blinds and on Catarina. Her face now clearly visible to Arlan for the first time. The silence broke when she began walking towards the large desk, her high heels clapping on the hardwood floor before she reached the rug. She reached up for her hat, making eye contact with the Private Eye for the first time.

"I need your help..." she began, her voice was sensual, with a hint of an accent that she was trying to hide. "my friend... something happened to her... I..I need you to find her". She sounded desperate, if Arlan remembered her, then he would know that she was a prostitute and hence why she had come to him for help.

 

[Pazzo]

Arlan watched as the door opened slowly, with a vision of loveliness walking through. She was not the first such woman to walk through his door, but arguably one of the most beautiful. His deductive mind immediately went into overdrive.

Gorgeous. Dressed well. Fresh Makeup. His eyes traced up her lovely legs, wondering what in the hell kind of husband would be stupid enough to have an affair on her, as god just doesn't make them much more attractive than this. His eyes rose a little higher, marveling at just how well her dress hugged her curvaceous figure. She made no attempt to hide her charms, leading him to think that she wasn't married at all. Possibly a high end prostitute.

This would be unexpected at best. Usually he was the one watching such women. She turned around, and started to walk towards him. Her legs were well defined, and moved with a liquid grace. Well practiced it seemed, having learned the type of stride to make to catch the eye of a lonely or frustrated man. Definite a prostitute, and not a cheap one at that.

Her perfume hit his sense next, as his eyes rose to view her chest. Quite ample, and swayed in a heavenly manner with each stride. Her scent was exotic, and expensive. Likely a gift from some lovesick man who desperately wanted her to just run away with him somewhere. Likely more than a few tried, but something kept her here. Arlan's mind stopped wondering when his eyes met hers. A car passed by on the road behind them, it's headlights hitting her face at the perfect angle.

At that point he recognized who she was. Another one of the Diner's frequent customers, the detective would see her across the bar having a drink. Other times she would sit next to him, as they exchanged idle words. Some nights he wanted to go talk to her, and possibly even take her home. But he had bills to pay, and her time was probably worth ten times what he usually billed out. She then spoke of needing help, immediately dispelling his profile. He had never been this wrong before.

How ironic, the woman whom he thought of hiring numerous times, was going to hire him. Arlan pursed his lips, and gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. He walked around behind it, and felt his chair with the backs of his calves. He then lowered himself into it, as he fished out his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. The detective rolled his chair a little closer, as his withdrew one of his Lucky Strikes. "Would you like one?" He offered, sliding the pack across the desk as he settled back into his chair. "I know you." He murmured. "Or at least I have seen you before. You are a regular at Melvin's, right? He asked of her.

He then lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply. "Alright, tell me about this friend of yours. Her name, how long you have known her, how well you know her, and when you last saw her." He murmured. "Often, the devil is in the details..."

 

[Catarina]

Catarina waited for Arlan to offer her a seat. Her eyes did not stray from him, she was trying to read him, even if she didn't have much of a choice it still was important to her to be able to trust him.

And so when Arlan gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, Catarina sat down, choosing the chair on the left. She felt observed, he was clearly doing the same thing, reading her... or judging her perhaps. But her doubts were suddenly dispersed when he offered her one of his Lucky Strikes. She had stopped smoking not long ago, but was clearly in need of one, reaching for the pack. "A bad habit of mine..." she uttered as her slim hand gingerly went back towards her mouth, her lips slightly parting for the cigarette.

Catarina leaned in for Arlan to light her cigarette before sitting back down. She puffed and inhaled the warm smoke of the cigarette, her lungs filling with warmth as the smoke slowly went down her throat. The red of her lipstick leaving a mark on the cigarette butt. As she exhales the smoke back out she nods, as if to point out that she agrees with Arlan.

The young woman began telling her story to the Private Eye, trying to remember as much as she could. It was hard for her to go back memory lane, talking about her missing friend, and keeping back the tears, but she managed to do so...although Arlan must have noticed the pauses and how her voice would occasionally change, breaking up.

She explained how Elisabeth had left her a letter with a key in it, but she had no clue what the key would open. It was smaller than a house key, perhaps the key of a postal box or a safe?

Catarina didn't really have much to offer in terms of clues, while the two women were befriended, their job didn't really make it easy for them to get acquainted besides the on and off chatter when they would cross paths at night, while waiting for a new client. Even then, the women would keep their private lives out of it and remain casual, talking about the job, rumors about clients who meant trouble, how to keep away from undercover cops, and what have you.

Once she was done she just sat there, not moving, while waiting for Arlan to digest all the information, hoping he could help her.

She looked stressed, perhaps due to the fact that she feared that whatever had happened to her friend could also happen to her, but she could not afford to hide at home, or to run off. She wasn't exactly earning a fortune, even if she dressed the part.

 

[Pazzo]

Arlan puffed upon his own cigarette, letting it relax his mind. He held the warm smoke in, letting it flow out of his nose, tingling his nasal passages. He closed his eyes as he listened to her liquid voice speak to him of her acquaintance, or co=worker, or friend. It was difficult to tell which, given that she changed around the importance of their relationship.

It was more along the line of "comrades" to his way of thinking. Few people care about paid whores. They are easily disposable and replaced. As such, prostitutes tends to look out for their own. In a world where no one cares about you unless they were inside of you, it was the only sane solution.

Arlan's eyes opened when she spoke of a key that her friend had left her, The joints in his chair creaked a little as her turned to face her, and leaned forward, reaching out for the key. He then leaned back, and looked at it, turning it over in his fingers repeatedly. It was small, like the kind you might use for a padlock, a mailbox, or possibly a safe deposit box.

It's once brassy surface dulled with oxidation and age, it's edges somewhat blunted from repeated use. Looking at it a little closer, her could barely make out some etchings. Upon one side, it read "0038". Upon the other side, he could see a fairly recognizable emblem of J and J. The detective grinned a little, as he felt his curiosity pique. This was the emblem for the Bank downtown. It was closed for normal business at this hour, but the safe deposit boxes were accessible twenty four seven.

"You are correct in your assumption." He murmured, as he handed the key back to her. Arlan then took another long drag from his cigarette, ending its length. He stood up, and pushed the smoldering filter into his ashtray, grinding it so it went completely out. "That's a key for a safe deposit box at Jameson and Jameson." He then walked over to his coat rack, and lifted his long black world war one style trench coat from it, donning it. He then turned back to her. "Consider me possibly interested. This may be a simple case of her dying from natural causes. I think we should visit the bank, and see just exactly what she left you."

He then walked to his door, and held it open as he placed a black fedora type hat upon his head. "Once I have a better idea of what you are asking of me, we can decide whether this is a case or not, and just how much it will cost you."