PI baggy pants
At Lumy's request, i have excavated a bit of history from my mail archives.
Six and a half years ago, lumy left his terminal unlocked. It may or may not have been yours truly who found it such. Suffice to say, all we know is that this mail was found in the inboxes of a select few --Xore 18:19, 12 August 2009 (UTC)
Date: Mon, 13 Jan 2003 13:05:59 -0800 From: Andy Lumb <--------@sfu.ca> To: Baggy Pants List <----------@sfu.ca> Subject: PI baggy pants
My name is Lumb. Andy Lumb, the best private dick in chicago. It was raining outside, the warm, steady drizzle that makes a man take a sip against the chill that comes down your spine despite the humidity on the outside. And it was cold, that chill. Colder than a stiff in a morgue. I'd know. I've sent enough to that cold hell in my time to know it better than any other of the cheap imitations that try to be me.
I was busy. It's a hard choice to make, the bourbon or the whiskey. Not a decision to be made lightly, in the least. I heard voices in the outer office and came quickly to the conclusion that the decision was better off made later.
Miss Chimly buzzed me. "Mister Lumb? There's a lady here to see you". Her boston accent made me cringe, but times were rough, and good help is hard to find.
She had money, you could tell that, just in the way she walked. She had style, she had class. And she had a nice pair of legs.
Her blouse lay loosely unbuttoned at the top, revealing a hint of cleavage that would do a butcher shame. I felt a warmth in me that had nothing to do with the humidity outside, or the whiskey that would soon be warming my belly.
But she was colder still. "Are you a private, dick?" she asked, pausing slightly. Her phrasing left me wondering exactly what she meant by that, and you couldn't tell by her eyes, as her large hat and veil left her eyes deep in shadow.
"That's me tuts." i said, failing to rise to her bait. Well. maybe. But that was a whole other issue. "What can i do for you?"
Her story was old as time. It always was with dames like these. A dead husband (several decades older than her, of course), unaccountably rich, and eyes on some ancient trinket or other to complete her husbands last dying wish. Probably to fullfil some ancient prophecy or other that would grant her godhood, riches, or just an empty pocket.
I said yes. What else could i do? The money involved would see me out of this cheap joint on the wrong side of town and into the easy life. But she was trouble. i knew it. And i knew i would regret it.
I stood up to shake her hand when it happened.
I'm a thin man. That goes without saying. It's my trademark. It lets me slip in and out of shadows that woudn't hide a fly. But then there's my other trademark, my baggy pants. I stood up, and immediately regretted it. She merely turned, and walked away. Her legs, her blouse, and her wallet. I never saw her again.
The whiskey was still in the drawer, and it swilled around in my belly like a dying pig in a puddle of mud. It warmed me a little, but the chill was stronger still. I still felt the draft, through my baggy pants.