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.

The Girl...

I imagine the stench of piss and urinal cakes hit him first. My fist hit him second. I bundled his yuppie ass into the nearest cubicle and set him against the flimsy plasterboard.
"There's a few things we need to sort out, a few problems we need to discuss."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm the guy asking you where the girl is and the same guy who is gonna pound you if you don't tell him."
"You some kinda cop? By the time my lawyer's done with you, you'd be lucky to pound the streets."
"I'm no cop, kid."
"Then what do you want?"
I answered with a stiff backhand.
"Who are you?"
And another.
"C'mon, give me a break."
The third time, I didn't stop. I didn't like this man, if 'man' was even the right word. He was scum and I was the one who had to skim him off the surface. I slapped him around for a good few minutes: it wasn't long before he started spitting blood down his shirt. he wasn't crying yet, but I could see in his eyes that he was all ready to break.
"look what do you want, money?" He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a fresh wad of bills. "Just stop hitting me." I took the bills, gave them a cursory glance and stuffed them in my top breast pocket.
"I'll tell you now I'm not interested in your money."
"Then what do you want?"
"I already told you! Where's the girl?"
"What girl?"
I shoved his head down the toilet and flushed. Whoever was in there last had obviously eaten something bad. He came up gagging.
"What girl?"
"Blond, about five-two. Remember?"
"I don't know!"
"She was barely seventeen!"
"I don't know!"
I socked one in his gut and made him swallow toilet water. This time, when he came up, he threw up all over himself. It was a pathetic sight.
"Where is she?"
Through piss stung eyes and a thick goo of puke and blood he uttered these sporadic words: "Sampson's pawn shop, corner of west and twenty-third."
I gave him a final fist in the stomach as way of thanks and got ready to leave.

And that's when the bouncer walked in.

Warren Palmer

The figure loomed large beside me, the beaming spotlights painting his silhouette as some sort of holy apparition. It was fitting that, upon taking the seat opposite, he'd reveal himself to be none other than Warren Palmer.

Clean-shaven, prominent jaw, broad shouldered, assured, disarming smile... Palmer was the poster child for law enforcement in this city. We hadn't spoken for a while now; two polar opposites set in their ways, we'd clashed over and over back in 'the force'.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Palmer asked abruptly, his tone weary and bothered as if he'd been forced to ask the same question his entire life.
"Wanted to know what was down with the kids," I replied bluntly, lifting my glass and tipping it to my lips. The brandy blazed a burning trail down my throat, one which stung all the more for the look of disdain etched across Warren's face.
"Is that your grand plan to get your licence back?" he called down from the moral high ground. "You got no business here. Why not settle up and call it a night?"

Glancing beyond him, my eye caught the out of order sign now hanging on the executive washroom dooor. I had visions of beyond, of a convulsing crack-head slumped over the toilet bowl, mouth frothing like some rabid animal.
My guy threw a couple of fractious gestures towards the closed off men's room; it was clear his demands didn't often meet the word 'no'.
A few minutes of posturing and whining followed, before he finally caved and I got my break. Glaring daggers one final time at the nightclub attendant, he stormed from the lounge and into the public toilets.

Time to go to work.

"Better be on your way, Warren... I'm sure there's an old lady somewhere 'needs helping across the street."

He didn't rise to it, and I felt like shit.

Bashing my glass on the table, I crossed the dance floor, preparing to get my hands dirty, one more time.