I wandered slowly through the streets as I puzzled over the shard of mirror I had found. Slow sax music started playing in the background as it started to drizzle, just as I had fully expected. Who had killed Dumpty? Why would anybody want to? How did this stupid piece of mirror fit in? Why hadn’t I brought an umbrella when I left the office? And, perhaps most importantly, why couldn’t I get that lazy-eyed dame out of my head?
I cut the narration short that was running through my head and hunched my shoulders against the rain. Somebody had done murder. And somebody had to pay. It was my job to see that the two somebodies were one and the same bloke. It might have been raining, but Justice was going to be my umbrella tonight from the unjust rain. Or the unpunished unjust that had been caught in the rain of despair that was raining as I walked in it. Or something to that effect.
I silently vowed to never again mix the Chivas with Budweiser and headed for home. By home, I mean the office. I don’t go to the apartment much, not since Betty left, taking her dog and her sweaters and leaving a broken down vacuum and some dents in the rug where her vanity had sat. Those dents were never going to come out. She’d said I had no ambition. She’d said I drank too much, and I had to choose between the job and the drink, or her. I missed her sometimes. Especially every time I stepped in one of those god-damned dents in the rug and nearly twisted my ankle.
When I reached the office, the door was ajar. I had locked it when I left, so I immediately knew something was up. I pulled my trusty Thursday night special (I can’t afford a Saturday night special on $244 a day plus expenses) and peeked around the door jamb. Everything was quiet. The office was a mess – papers were littered everywhere, the coat rack was tipped over, and the couch cushions were on the floor. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was just as I had left it.
Upon closer inspection, however, something had indeed changed. My desk was clean, which did nothing to enhance its appearance other than to draw attention to the clean white sheet of paper lying directly in the middle. Scrawled on the paper was the following note:
Meet me at the bridge at 10:00 P.M. That means at night. Come alone, and don’t bring anybody with you. And don’t bring your gun. And bring some of that salt-water taffy they sell on 36th Ave and two mochas. Unless you want a cappuccino.
T.K.
I lay the gun on the desk and flopped in my chair, feeling the adrenaline drain out of my body like piss out of a wino. I checked the time: 7:13. I had time for a short nap before I met the mysterious T.K. I lay my head down, wondering if I’d be able to sleep.
To Be Continued
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