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threeasfour
Meteorite
- Joined
- Sep 14, 2010
As you can see, not only do I fail at titles I create extremely cheesy ones 
And so we begin...
Tonight had been another long one. The weather was starting to get cold and, what was worse, it had been raining ever since the late evening. At first it had been the pleasant kind of rain that one might read a book to, but it didn't take long to turn into something fierce. There was no thunder or lightning; just angry droplets of moisture falling rapidfire from the sky in a seemingly endless torrent. It was hard for him to work under those conditions, but luckily he hadn't had to do much. Today was an office day, as it was his last night with his most recent case. All that was left was to compile the evidence and hand it over to his client. After that he got paid, and whatever was going to happen between the client and his wife was out of the the private eye's hands.
Well, that should have been the case, but something had caught his eye. The entire block was dark save for streetlights, and the single light shining from the second story window of the old brick and mortar building, a sign reading "Jack Armstrong, P.I." battered by the wind and rain. There was one door to get in through the front, and it was currently unlocked due to the current sole occupant. Upon entering one would find a bail bonds office to the right, and a set of stairs in the back which led up to a wooden door with a glass window, the words from the sign outside printed on it in black lettering. Going through that door would bring one to a rarely used waiting room, and beyond that was another door, this one windowless, holding the office room that was currently beaming the light out into the rainy night.
Jack sat at the desk, tapping his fingers impatiently as he stared down at the row of black and white pictures in front of him, green eyes slightly bloodshot from the many late nights, though the bourbon he'd been nursing all night probably wasn't helping matters. His face was in need of a shave as dark stubble had taken over, but he never shaved when he was on a case. It was bad luck. At least, that's what he said. Granted, he wasn't a superstitious man by any stretch, and when it came down to it it was just a matter of tradition and a somewhat flimsy way of justifying it.
He'd figured out by now the men his client's wife had been cheating on him with were linked, though not personally. Rather, they all had similar talent pools. She'd been picking out some interesting men. Burglars, thieves, even a few other private investigators. He had a hunch, and his hunches were always right, that she was looking for something. But what? That was what had been puzzling him for the last few hours. He reached up to run a hand through that slicked back brown hair before grabbing the half empty bourbon bottle that was sitting open on his desk, pouring it into the small glass and bringing it to his lips with a sharp exhale, the gray suit he wore growing a bit more wrinkled with each hour he passed sitting in his chair.
"Why?" He asked nobody in particular, sitting back a bit and swirling the dark liquid in the glass absently as he stared up at the ceiling fan. It really wasn't any of his business, but he hated leaving a puzzle unsolved. Jack hadn't gotten into this line of work due to a sense of justice. If that had been the case he'd have joined the police. No, Jack was a man who liked to figure things out, and he got paid good money to do it. Plus, he doubted he'd like having to do things 'by the book' all the time. He took another sip of his drink as he stared down at the photographs, unaware that the missing piece of the puzzle would be showing up on his office doorstep soon enough.
*****
“You sure you want to get off here lady? There’s a nice clip joint just two blocks down, you can hang out there until the weather dries up”. The oily cabby tilted his windshield mirror to cast a glance at his customer’s reflection. Once again he was taken aback by the rather riveting figure sitting in his back seat. Shifting in his seat, he cleared his throat and scratched his bloated gut with an agitated tension.
"Please, just round the corner. Where the street lamp is, drop me off there".
"Alright, as you wish. Don't see nobody else out here, couldn't pay me to walk these streets let me tell ya'. The coppers don't even come around here. I figured such a nice lady like yourself shouldn't be out in this part of town..." the cabby rambled on, lost in his own lecture which Emily Teale had easily drowned out by her own thoughts.
The street was dark but as the yellow belly of the taxi swung into the periphery of the streetlamp, Mrs. Teale's auburn red hair glowed with a halo of brass, reflecting the flood of light. She was young, mid 20's perhaps, with siren like features. It wasn't hard to guess why Jonathan Teale asked her to marry him only after five months of courtship. She was beautiful in the seductive, deadly way. Why some men would mistake that for a good attribute to have in a wife was beyond her. She wasn't "Emily Teale" back then, "Emily" being a stage name she adopted when she moved from her hometown, hoping to become the next Elizabeth Hartland. Jonathan Teale had his eye on her ever since she started hanging around the Green Mill, entertaining various men in the hopes of breaking into the business. He swooped in possessively, with his money (dirty or not, she didn't care) and connections and she was flattered enough to accept his proposal.
Emily paused, eyeing the square of bright light through the smudged window. It was a haunting sight, this strange street which in her mind, belonged to the man who's been following her for the past two months. This faceless ghost trailed her everywhere, waiting outside the shops she visited or taking notes in a telephone booth across the beautician's shop. Emily knew what he was sniffing for, evidence of her adultery. On the surface she looked as polished as ever, but internally she felt like she hadn't slept one night since this detective showed up. The truth was if she'd be as good as dead the moment he handed his packet of evidence to her husband, that's why this meeting tonight had to happen.
The cab's chassis hummed noting that the engine was still running, Emily paid the cabby and swung the door open where the sound of fat drops of water hitting the pavement welcomed her. A pair of leather heels met the cement and she immediately she ran into the building with no less than a downpour showering over her. Brushing the moisture off her silk blouse, she shivered as she scanned the weathered looking building directory for a J. Armstrong. Tucking her purse, a petite yet expensive gift from her husband, under her arm; Emily glided up the steps with her heels clicking the only accompanying noise to the chitter of rats hiding in the walls.
The third floor was an eyesore, the walls were even yellower than the lobbyy's and the ceiling sunk into the hallway, giving off the depressing appearance of an uneasy house of cards. The woman clicked down the hallway, the only visible light coming from the same bright room she saw from below. That office was the light and she was the moth. She knocked twice, a cough and the shuffling of papers was heard.
Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door.
"Mr. Armstrong? Mr. Jack Armstrong? My name is Mrs. Emily Teale..."
*****
If he were a smoking man, Jack probably would have gone through an entire pack or two by now. There was no way it was coincidence. She was planning something. A heist, maybe? He took another sip of the drink before he heard something, those keen ears telling him someone was coming up the stairs. He was quit to shuffle all of the photos into a pile, placing them in a manila envelope and opening one of his desk drawers, tossing it in and shutting it quickly. Someone coming to his office at this hour couldn't have had good intentions, and when you're a P.I. your whole life, you end up with a few enemies. With that in mind, Jack reached into his jacket, pulling out a revolver and checking to make sure it was loaded and ready just in case.
And then came the knock. No killer would be stupid enough to knock. They'd just enter and shoot. It was a woman, to boot. He doubted someone would send a woman to kill him. That wasn't a job for the fairer sex. As he was about to speak the door opened, the woman asking for him and introducing himself before he was even out of his chair. It was her. This was no coincidence.
"I know who you are." Either he was next on her list, or she knew he'd been trailing her. Possibly both. Either way, she knew who he was. Vaguely, at least. He could tell by looking at her she recognized him. Jack was on guard, though he had to admit she looked damn good close up. Not that she looked bad from far away through a camera lens, but in the same room there was no question about it. "Office hours are long over." He took another drink before setting the nearly empty glass down, moving a hand to scratch at the masculine chin.
"If you've got business, it'll have to wait until tomorrow." If she knew, it wasn't a big deal. Worst case scenario she'd get an extra day to find a good divorce lawyer.
The office was fairly typical. The desk had a typewriter, telephone, some notepads and pens. No pictures. Jack was a lifelong bachelor. Two chairs sat in front of the desk, and along the walls were filing cabinets and a few book shelves. On the opposite side was a couch where he would sometimes sleep when going home was too much hassle. The place wasn't in the best shape, but rent was cheap, and his reputation was good enough that the state of his office didn't matter too much.
He reached out for the glass once more, finishing it off before setting it down again next to the bottle the contents had come from. "I'll have to ask you to leave. You're trespassing right now, and I'd hate to have to get a pretty little thing like you mixed up with the police."
*****
She smiled.
“Don’t be silly, I’m not going anywhere. Who do you think the police would believe, an innocent housewife lost in the wrong neck of the woods or the dirt bag who lured her here?”
Emily stepped forward, almost daring Jack to do anything drastic. Her violet blue eyes surveyed the cramped office and the desk which seemed unusually devoid of papers or working materials. It was strange finally facing Jack Armstrong, he knew enough information about her to fill folders, ledgers, heck even a cabinet maybe but she knew nothing about him.
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a thick brown envelope and threw it on the desk before him.
“You’ve been following me for months, and as much as I appreciate your perseverance, patience and even skill...” she paused, recalling one night when she had spotted Jack in the rain, lingering for three hours in the parking lot adjacent to a motel room she was using with a lover.
“I’m getting tired of seeing your mug everywhere I go. I don’t know what my husband is paying you but I’ll pay you triple...granted that you hand over whatever information you have about me. I also ask that the first call you make tomorrow morning will be to my husband, where you’ll inform him that you’ve dug up nothing on me and that I’ve been living a life that’s as clean as a whistle.”
Without asking for permission to smoke, Emily fished a cigarette and a silver lighter out of her purse. She lit the tip and inhaled smoothly, a slim plume of smoke flowed past her lips as she exhaled.
“There’s two grand in that envelope, think of it as your first installment.”
Tonight had been another long one. The weather was starting to get cold and, what was worse, it had been raining ever since the late evening. At first it had been the pleasant kind of rain that one might read a book to, but it didn't take long to turn into something fierce. There was no thunder or lightning; just angry droplets of moisture falling rapidfire from the sky in a seemingly endless torrent. It was hard for him to work under those conditions, but luckily he hadn't had to do much. Today was an office day, as it was his last night with his most recent case. All that was left was to compile the evidence and hand it over to his client. After that he got paid, and whatever was going to happen between the client and his wife was out of the the private eye's hands.
Well, that should have been the case, but something had caught his eye. The entire block was dark save for streetlights, and the single light shining from the second story window of the old brick and mortar building, a sign reading "Jack Armstrong, P.I." battered by the wind and rain. There was one door to get in through the front, and it was currently unlocked due to the current sole occupant. Upon entering one would find a bail bonds office to the right, and a set of stairs in the back which led up to a wooden door with a glass window, the words from the sign outside printed on it in black lettering. Going through that door would bring one to a rarely used waiting room, and beyond that was another door, this one windowless, holding the office room that was currently beaming the light out into the rainy night.
Jack sat at the desk, tapping his fingers impatiently as he stared down at the row of black and white pictures in front of him, green eyes slightly bloodshot from the many late nights, though the bourbon he'd been nursing all night probably wasn't helping matters. His face was in need of a shave as dark stubble had taken over, but he never shaved when he was on a case. It was bad luck. At least, that's what he said. Granted, he wasn't a superstitious man by any stretch, and when it came down to it it was just a matter of tradition and a somewhat flimsy way of justifying it.
He'd figured out by now the men his client's wife had been cheating on him with were linked, though not personally. Rather, they all had similar talent pools. She'd been picking out some interesting men. Burglars, thieves, even a few other private investigators. He had a hunch, and his hunches were always right, that she was looking for something. But what? That was what had been puzzling him for the last few hours. He reached up to run a hand through that slicked back brown hair before grabbing the half empty bourbon bottle that was sitting open on his desk, pouring it into the small glass and bringing it to his lips with a sharp exhale, the gray suit he wore growing a bit more wrinkled with each hour he passed sitting in his chair.
"Why?" He asked nobody in particular, sitting back a bit and swirling the dark liquid in the glass absently as he stared up at the ceiling fan. It really wasn't any of his business, but he hated leaving a puzzle unsolved. Jack hadn't gotten into this line of work due to a sense of justice. If that had been the case he'd have joined the police. No, Jack was a man who liked to figure things out, and he got paid good money to do it. Plus, he doubted he'd like having to do things 'by the book' all the time. He took another sip of his drink as he stared down at the photographs, unaware that the missing piece of the puzzle would be showing up on his office doorstep soon enough.
*****
“You sure you want to get off here lady? There’s a nice clip joint just two blocks down, you can hang out there until the weather dries up”. The oily cabby tilted his windshield mirror to cast a glance at his customer’s reflection. Once again he was taken aback by the rather riveting figure sitting in his back seat. Shifting in his seat, he cleared his throat and scratched his bloated gut with an agitated tension.
"Please, just round the corner. Where the street lamp is, drop me off there".
"Alright, as you wish. Don't see nobody else out here, couldn't pay me to walk these streets let me tell ya'. The coppers don't even come around here. I figured such a nice lady like yourself shouldn't be out in this part of town..." the cabby rambled on, lost in his own lecture which Emily Teale had easily drowned out by her own thoughts.
The street was dark but as the yellow belly of the taxi swung into the periphery of the streetlamp, Mrs. Teale's auburn red hair glowed with a halo of brass, reflecting the flood of light. She was young, mid 20's perhaps, with siren like features. It wasn't hard to guess why Jonathan Teale asked her to marry him only after five months of courtship. She was beautiful in the seductive, deadly way. Why some men would mistake that for a good attribute to have in a wife was beyond her. She wasn't "Emily Teale" back then, "Emily" being a stage name she adopted when she moved from her hometown, hoping to become the next Elizabeth Hartland. Jonathan Teale had his eye on her ever since she started hanging around the Green Mill, entertaining various men in the hopes of breaking into the business. He swooped in possessively, with his money (dirty or not, she didn't care) and connections and she was flattered enough to accept his proposal.
Emily paused, eyeing the square of bright light through the smudged window. It was a haunting sight, this strange street which in her mind, belonged to the man who's been following her for the past two months. This faceless ghost trailed her everywhere, waiting outside the shops she visited or taking notes in a telephone booth across the beautician's shop. Emily knew what he was sniffing for, evidence of her adultery. On the surface she looked as polished as ever, but internally she felt like she hadn't slept one night since this detective showed up. The truth was if she'd be as good as dead the moment he handed his packet of evidence to her husband, that's why this meeting tonight had to happen.
The cab's chassis hummed noting that the engine was still running, Emily paid the cabby and swung the door open where the sound of fat drops of water hitting the pavement welcomed her. A pair of leather heels met the cement and she immediately she ran into the building with no less than a downpour showering over her. Brushing the moisture off her silk blouse, she shivered as she scanned the weathered looking building directory for a J. Armstrong. Tucking her purse, a petite yet expensive gift from her husband, under her arm; Emily glided up the steps with her heels clicking the only accompanying noise to the chitter of rats hiding in the walls.
The third floor was an eyesore, the walls were even yellower than the lobbyy's and the ceiling sunk into the hallway, giving off the depressing appearance of an uneasy house of cards. The woman clicked down the hallway, the only visible light coming from the same bright room she saw from below. That office was the light and she was the moth. She knocked twice, a cough and the shuffling of papers was heard.
Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door.
"Mr. Armstrong? Mr. Jack Armstrong? My name is Mrs. Emily Teale..."
*****
If he were a smoking man, Jack probably would have gone through an entire pack or two by now. There was no way it was coincidence. She was planning something. A heist, maybe? He took another sip of the drink before he heard something, those keen ears telling him someone was coming up the stairs. He was quit to shuffle all of the photos into a pile, placing them in a manila envelope and opening one of his desk drawers, tossing it in and shutting it quickly. Someone coming to his office at this hour couldn't have had good intentions, and when you're a P.I. your whole life, you end up with a few enemies. With that in mind, Jack reached into his jacket, pulling out a revolver and checking to make sure it was loaded and ready just in case.
And then came the knock. No killer would be stupid enough to knock. They'd just enter and shoot. It was a woman, to boot. He doubted someone would send a woman to kill him. That wasn't a job for the fairer sex. As he was about to speak the door opened, the woman asking for him and introducing himself before he was even out of his chair. It was her. This was no coincidence.
"I know who you are." Either he was next on her list, or she knew he'd been trailing her. Possibly both. Either way, she knew who he was. Vaguely, at least. He could tell by looking at her she recognized him. Jack was on guard, though he had to admit she looked damn good close up. Not that she looked bad from far away through a camera lens, but in the same room there was no question about it. "Office hours are long over." He took another drink before setting the nearly empty glass down, moving a hand to scratch at the masculine chin.
"If you've got business, it'll have to wait until tomorrow." If she knew, it wasn't a big deal. Worst case scenario she'd get an extra day to find a good divorce lawyer.
The office was fairly typical. The desk had a typewriter, telephone, some notepads and pens. No pictures. Jack was a lifelong bachelor. Two chairs sat in front of the desk, and along the walls were filing cabinets and a few book shelves. On the opposite side was a couch where he would sometimes sleep when going home was too much hassle. The place wasn't in the best shape, but rent was cheap, and his reputation was good enough that the state of his office didn't matter too much.
He reached out for the glass once more, finishing it off before setting it down again next to the bottle the contents had come from. "I'll have to ask you to leave. You're trespassing right now, and I'd hate to have to get a pretty little thing like you mixed up with the police."
*****
She smiled.
“Don’t be silly, I’m not going anywhere. Who do you think the police would believe, an innocent housewife lost in the wrong neck of the woods or the dirt bag who lured her here?”
Emily stepped forward, almost daring Jack to do anything drastic. Her violet blue eyes surveyed the cramped office and the desk which seemed unusually devoid of papers or working materials. It was strange finally facing Jack Armstrong, he knew enough information about her to fill folders, ledgers, heck even a cabinet maybe but she knew nothing about him.
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a thick brown envelope and threw it on the desk before him.
“You’ve been following me for months, and as much as I appreciate your perseverance, patience and even skill...” she paused, recalling one night when she had spotted Jack in the rain, lingering for three hours in the parking lot adjacent to a motel room she was using with a lover.
“I’m getting tired of seeing your mug everywhere I go. I don’t know what my husband is paying you but I’ll pay you triple...granted that you hand over whatever information you have about me. I also ask that the first call you make tomorrow morning will be to my husband, where you’ll inform him that you’ve dug up nothing on me and that I’ve been living a life that’s as clean as a whistle.”
Without asking for permission to smoke, Emily fished a cigarette and a silver lighter out of her purse. She lit the tip and inhaled smoothly, a slim plume of smoke flowed past her lips as she exhaled.
“There’s two grand in that envelope, think of it as your first installment.”
