There was this man...
Jul. 17th, 2006 06:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gridloreI knew she was trouble from the moment she walked into my office. High society class stuffed into a dress bought at half price and one size too small. She gave me a look that in my younger days would have melted my heart. Now, I just pointed to a chair.
"Consultation is free. After that, I get $25 a day plus expenses."
"That's pretty steep" she observed in a voice that make a priest quit his orders.
I shrugged. "I got loved ones to support." Two bookies and a bartender, plus the landlord of the fleabag where I hung my shingle.
She paused, then looked me in the eyes.
"There's a man."
"Usually the case."
"No, a real man. Mickey Spillane. Writer. Last of the hardboiled detective writers. Creator of Mike Hammer. I want you to find him for me."
I reached into my shot draw. I kept two things there, my piece and a bottle of whiskey. One way or another, somebody was getting shot when i went in there. The broad lucked out, I came up with the bottle and two glasses.
"Sweetheart, I can't take the case."
"But I'll pay.." Wrong thing to say to a private dick behind on the rent, but I liked this one. She was after a classy guy.
"Keep the money. Spillane is dead. Dropped out for good just today."
"I.. I see." She grabbed her purse and stood up. "It seems that I've been on a fool's errand, and I've wasted your time. Good day."
Just like that she was gone, gone like all the great writers, Hammett, Derleth, and now Spillane. I knocked back the last of my whiskey in tribute. Times were tough for guys like me, and they had just gotten tougher.
"Consultation is free. After that, I get $25 a day plus expenses."
"That's pretty steep" she observed in a voice that make a priest quit his orders.
I shrugged. "I got loved ones to support." Two bookies and a bartender, plus the landlord of the fleabag where I hung my shingle.
She paused, then looked me in the eyes.
"There's a man."
"Usually the case."
"No, a real man. Mickey Spillane. Writer. Last of the hardboiled detective writers. Creator of Mike Hammer. I want you to find him for me."
I reached into my shot draw. I kept two things there, my piece and a bottle of whiskey. One way or another, somebody was getting shot when i went in there. The broad lucked out, I came up with the bottle and two glasses.
"Sweetheart, I can't take the case."
"But I'll pay.." Wrong thing to say to a private dick behind on the rent, but I liked this one. She was after a classy guy.
"Keep the money. Spillane is dead. Dropped out for good just today."
"I.. I see." She grabbed her purse and stood up. "It seems that I've been on a fool's errand, and I've wasted your time. Good day."
Just like that she was gone, gone like all the great writers, Hammett, Derleth, and now Spillane. I knocked back the last of my whiskey in tribute. Times were tough for guys like me, and they had just gotten tougher.
