The Client

The Devil is an asshole and I think he cracked a rib. He's just doing his job old man. And you're not done yet. Sure as hell I'm not. He tossed my tired ass out back, in the alley with the rest of the bums and veterans. He was kind enough not to take all my money. The sweet-dirty taste of blood filled my mouth: the natural reaction is to spit the stuff out, but I find it's best to swallow it with your pride and hold your head up: it sends a message.
"You got guts old man," The bouncer shifted his hulking form back inside, out of view. Cheap stripper music blared out for a second. The alley dropped to silence.
"Jeeshus shun, yer gotta tip 'em girlsh." A dirty old wino with all his front teeth missing doling out advice, while simultaneously swigging on something illegal and purple. I was really straddling the precipice this time.
I needed two things: hot coffee and a payphone. It was time to update the client.
The beautiful thing about the city is that one minute you can be down in the depths of sin and the next you can find yourself in a sterile mall on the respectable side of society. The place was quiet and shut up for the night, inhabited by a lone janitor working his way from one side of the plaza to another. Slap slap was the sound of his mop washing away the filth of the streets. A lone vendor stared out from behind his stall, the poor guy probably worked seventeen hours a day to feed his kids. His jaw worked stale gum like cud.
"You look like shit fella."
"Thanks. Gimme a coffee. And a Danish."
"Sure thing."
"You know a place called Sampson's?"
"West and twenty-third?"
"Yeah."
"Sure. Guy who owns it is scum. He'll pawn anything."
I didn't like the sound of that.
"Thanks." I took my food and tipped him. He smiled.
"Thank you very much sir. And keep sniffin' Jack."
I turned and gave him a sideways glance: he carried on smiling like nothing was wrong: that was the moment I realised this case was going to take me places I didn't want to go. So here's a tip to you kids and wannabes: never take cases from politicians.

The Devil or the Deep Blue Sea

The door whined to a close behind him; I guessed from the sound, as the hulking son of a bitch blocked most of my view. His bald head glistened with fine beads of sweat, while tiny reflections stared back from his wrap-around shades. A barrel-chest lay packed beneath his shirt, and the stitching at his shoulders groaned with the charge of holding his suit together.
The seconds of silence that hung between us were broken almost comically by the rattle of my guy spitting his teeth to the floor. The bouncer turned his gaze slowly to the stinking prick slumped against the cubicle door, before returning his attention my way.
"The guy's an asshole." I got my excuses in early, before jabbing a cigar between my teeth and lighting up.
"Biggest fucking asshole I've met," the bouncer concurred, oozing disdain through his stony features. "But he's an asshole with money."
Pushing a plume of smoke through my lips, I dug into my breast pocket, nipping the wad of crinkled notes between two fingers and drawing them out. "Guess that makes two of us."
Clubs like this were built on foundations of green paper, more often than not soaked in blood. Booze and lap-dances were always on the cards, but in these places you could buy anything you wanted and, at the right price, anyone. However, as the moments passed and the bills remained in my grasp, I snorted in resignation and finally lowered my arm. Typical.
"A lot of money comes through those doors," the bouncer began, remaining perfectly static. "A slice of that comes my way, and in return, I make sure it keeps rolling in. If our clients are getting beat-up on, there'll be less paper coming into the club. That means less paper coming into my pockets."
As he began to advance, I weighed up my options. He wouldn't call the cops. With the amount of powder swapping hands out there, they wouldn't want the badges snooping about. I figured that gave me two choices. First, go peacefully to the owner, tell him I'm a P.I. that's operating in his club, driving his business away, and risk ending up at the foot of the Hudson in a pair of concrete shoes. Or swing for the bouncer, get a pasting before being tossed outside, and get on with finding the girl.
The devil or the deep blue sea... there was no comparison.
Lifting the spent cigar butt from my mouth, I tossed it into one of the washbasins, barely leaving the embers to settle before throwing him a right hook.
I didn't care whether it hit home. I doubt he'd notice either way.
Next thing I knew, breath was clogging my throat and my head clanged like a fire bell as a granite fist ploughed through my gut.