Case File # 12 chapter3
I close the locks at the office, put on my jacket, and make my way downstairs. It's a little past a quarter to 3 in the morning; I'm guessing the Peter Cat is still open. I feel thirsty, and a cold beer, or maybe another shot of bourbon, will quench my dry throat. So, bracing for the cold downpour of the morning rain, I make my way towards the bar three blocks from my office.
As expected, Peter Cat is halfway towards being empty; a somber jazz quartet is performing on the stage. Only the die-hard jazz followers remain at the establishment. Most of them are middle-age office workers, although there are some twenty-something folks among the patrons. As I walk towards the bar, a good-looking couple is standing up from their table, heading towards the exit. The woman almost slipped, inebriated with too much cosmopolitan I guess, all the while laughing. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Except for this slight uneasiness crouching on my shoulders.. I make a quick glance around the place, trying to find an unmatched face in the dark bistro. Nothing; I'm probably drunk already, the alcohol buzz starting to settle in my foggy brain.
"A Miller High Life, on the bottle please." I take my usual seat at the farthest end of the bar. The jazz quartet is reduced to a trio, as the leader (I am guessing from his demeanor to his other band mates) decides to take a cigarette break, lighting a stick in his mouth while he makes his way towards the back stage. With that, the trio decides to play "The Way You Look Tonight".
As I take a sip of my beer, my thoughts wander off towards the Mrs. O'Hara case file. Looking at the prelimenary angles, there are a couple of possibilities. One, Mr. O'Hara might be kidnapped, although such an angle is impossible. Judging from Mrs. O'hara, and her chauffer-driven Mercedes Benz E-Class that sat at the front of my office a few hours ago, I can say that they are not the couple you can trifle with in this town; they are a prominent figure around here, probably have a number of connections. To kidnap either one of them would mean incurring the wrath of the governor, the mayor, and probably half of the police force. Along those lines, murdering Mr. O'Hara is not possible then. Besides, how do you murder a 36-year old mogul, without drawing some kind of attention? Topping the list of suspects, of course, is the missus. The driver might be the accomplice...
No, its still too early to make any conclusions. I have to check the police records first, and their place. Reshuffle all the cards, hopefully something different might turn. A crawling sensation, some kind of a subconscious slug, makes its way at the back of my head. Of course, at this early stage of the investigation, none of it makes sense. Nothing makes sense.
One end of the string doesnt tie with the other. I drink my beer, finishing it in three gulps.
There is somebody here. I'm pretty sure of it now. I glance to my left, trying to pinpoint the very spot where this uneasiness is coming from. There, on the corner near the stage across the room, a man is hunched low on his table. Probably 5'9" in height, wearing a black leather overcoat. His back is turned to me right now, but I can swear he was staring at me a few minutes ago. I keep my eyes on him, while my right hand slowly feels my Colt 1911 Government Model. I release the latch from its holster, and I cock the hammer.
I dont usually carry my .45 around here. I'm just a private investigator; I usually deal with cheating husbands and missing pets. The last time I was armed, legally at least, was 4 years ago; I still had a detective badge back then. Only recently have I started cooperating with the force again, because of a lucky break I accidentaly stumbled on concerning some kidnappings a few months ago. I am nothing but a discharged ex-cop, and this is an unlicensed weapon. Any cop who would happen to frisk me will surely find it, and all I have to show for carrying a loaded sidearm is the phone number of my former partner, who is now a section chief in the Narcotics Department downtown.
Yet I find myself caressing the handgun holstered at my back, trying to find some kind of solace, or even a small sense of security. This whole situation is ridiculous; what could possibly go wrong here? I'm in a jazz bar right now; 16 people are in here at the moment. If something does go down, you can be sure that there will be witnesses willing to give a statement. Still, my fingers will not stop feeling the cold, dark steel snuggled at my back.
There's something about this night that doesn't make sense. One end of the string doesn't tie with the other.
A small shudder escapes me then, the hairs on my nape standing on end. Because the possible perp I'm looking at just turned to his left slightly, still sitting on his stool, eyeing me, all the while his right is reaching out for something in his back. He maintains that pose. I can only imagine what it is; probably a knife? No, more than likely, a gun.
"Here's your beer, buddy." I turn around, a smug look from an expecting bartender is standing across from the bar. I reach out for some cash, lay it on the counter, and I take my beer.
It all happens so fast. I am about to turn towards the perp's table, when I suddenly feel someone passing right behind me. A strong, acrid smell follows Mr. Leather Trenchcoat. The smell of fish. I freeze on my stool, the fog in my brain gone, sinking away towards the darkness slowly like a whirlpool. His leather skin softly brushes my bare, right hand. I'm sure there are still some people here at the Peter Cat besides me and the perp, plust there's a band playing on stage; still, his shoes makes an unearthly loud click on the tiled floor, the only sound eminent in my ears, as he swaggers by me. And his fish smell is unmistakably from him.
I can feel his smile while he walks by. A sharp smile; no, more like a grin. A knifelike, teeth-filled grin. The very same expression when a child walks out of a candy store, his pockets filled with shoplifted gum and chocolate; the face of a successful, innocent mischief. Only this time, this man in particular, is filled with malice.
He wants to kill me, I'm sure of it.
He is not going to do it here inside of course, so, as he walks outside, I stand up, following him towards the emergency exit leading to the alley at the back of the building. It's more like he draws me, reeling me in like a salmon during fall season. I barely have the chance to fight it. From behind me, I can hear the small crowd clapping; its the end of the final set for the jazz group, and last call for the bar. I look at my wrist watch: 3:47am.
As expected, Peter Cat is halfway towards being empty; a somber jazz quartet is performing on the stage. Only the die-hard jazz followers remain at the establishment. Most of them are middle-age office workers, although there are some twenty-something folks among the patrons. As I walk towards the bar, a good-looking couple is standing up from their table, heading towards the exit. The woman almost slipped, inebriated with too much cosmopolitan I guess, all the while laughing. Nothing out of the ordinary here. Except for this slight uneasiness crouching on my shoulders.. I make a quick glance around the place, trying to find an unmatched face in the dark bistro. Nothing; I'm probably drunk already, the alcohol buzz starting to settle in my foggy brain.
"A Miller High Life, on the bottle please." I take my usual seat at the farthest end of the bar. The jazz quartet is reduced to a trio, as the leader (I am guessing from his demeanor to his other band mates) decides to take a cigarette break, lighting a stick in his mouth while he makes his way towards the back stage. With that, the trio decides to play "The Way You Look Tonight".
As I take a sip of my beer, my thoughts wander off towards the Mrs. O'Hara case file. Looking at the prelimenary angles, there are a couple of possibilities. One, Mr. O'Hara might be kidnapped, although such an angle is impossible. Judging from Mrs. O'hara, and her chauffer-driven Mercedes Benz E-Class that sat at the front of my office a few hours ago, I can say that they are not the couple you can trifle with in this town; they are a prominent figure around here, probably have a number of connections. To kidnap either one of them would mean incurring the wrath of the governor, the mayor, and probably half of the police force. Along those lines, murdering Mr. O'Hara is not possible then. Besides, how do you murder a 36-year old mogul, without drawing some kind of attention? Topping the list of suspects, of course, is the missus. The driver might be the accomplice...
No, its still too early to make any conclusions. I have to check the police records first, and their place. Reshuffle all the cards, hopefully something different might turn. A crawling sensation, some kind of a subconscious slug, makes its way at the back of my head. Of course, at this early stage of the investigation, none of it makes sense. Nothing makes sense.
One end of the string doesnt tie with the other. I drink my beer, finishing it in three gulps.
There is somebody here. I'm pretty sure of it now. I glance to my left, trying to pinpoint the very spot where this uneasiness is coming from. There, on the corner near the stage across the room, a man is hunched low on his table. Probably 5'9" in height, wearing a black leather overcoat. His back is turned to me right now, but I can swear he was staring at me a few minutes ago. I keep my eyes on him, while my right hand slowly feels my Colt 1911 Government Model. I release the latch from its holster, and I cock the hammer.
I dont usually carry my .45 around here. I'm just a private investigator; I usually deal with cheating husbands and missing pets. The last time I was armed, legally at least, was 4 years ago; I still had a detective badge back then. Only recently have I started cooperating with the force again, because of a lucky break I accidentaly stumbled on concerning some kidnappings a few months ago. I am nothing but a discharged ex-cop, and this is an unlicensed weapon. Any cop who would happen to frisk me will surely find it, and all I have to show for carrying a loaded sidearm is the phone number of my former partner, who is now a section chief in the Narcotics Department downtown.
Yet I find myself caressing the handgun holstered at my back, trying to find some kind of solace, or even a small sense of security. This whole situation is ridiculous; what could possibly go wrong here? I'm in a jazz bar right now; 16 people are in here at the moment. If something does go down, you can be sure that there will be witnesses willing to give a statement. Still, my fingers will not stop feeling the cold, dark steel snuggled at my back.
There's something about this night that doesn't make sense. One end of the string doesn't tie with the other.
A small shudder escapes me then, the hairs on my nape standing on end. Because the possible perp I'm looking at just turned to his left slightly, still sitting on his stool, eyeing me, all the while his right is reaching out for something in his back. He maintains that pose. I can only imagine what it is; probably a knife? No, more than likely, a gun.
"Here's your beer, buddy." I turn around, a smug look from an expecting bartender is standing across from the bar. I reach out for some cash, lay it on the counter, and I take my beer.
It all happens so fast. I am about to turn towards the perp's table, when I suddenly feel someone passing right behind me. A strong, acrid smell follows Mr. Leather Trenchcoat. The smell of fish. I freeze on my stool, the fog in my brain gone, sinking away towards the darkness slowly like a whirlpool. His leather skin softly brushes my bare, right hand. I'm sure there are still some people here at the Peter Cat besides me and the perp, plust there's a band playing on stage; still, his shoes makes an unearthly loud click on the tiled floor, the only sound eminent in my ears, as he swaggers by me. And his fish smell is unmistakably from him.
I can feel his smile while he walks by. A sharp smile; no, more like a grin. A knifelike, teeth-filled grin. The very same expression when a child walks out of a candy store, his pockets filled with shoplifted gum and chocolate; the face of a successful, innocent mischief. Only this time, this man in particular, is filled with malice.
He wants to kill me, I'm sure of it.
He is not going to do it here inside of course, so, as he walks outside, I stand up, following him towards the emergency exit leading to the alley at the back of the building. It's more like he draws me, reeling me in like a salmon during fall season. I barely have the chance to fight it. From behind me, I can hear the small crowd clapping; its the end of the final set for the jazz group, and last call for the bar. I look at my wrist watch: 3:47am.
posted by Gendo Ikari at 4:34 AM
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