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Chekhov's Gun
Jul. 28th, 2014 05:02 pmIn this game, it always comes down to leverage.
It might be the kind of leverage that you have over your clients — knowing when they're faking the tears, for example, or when they're actually scared for their life. Or it might be the leverage that someone has over them — photos of an illicit affair, a figurine that was promised and lost, or a person dead and the signs pointing to them as the ones who done it.
Sometimes, though, it's the leverage your clients have on you. You try and resist, always, because you know it's bad for business, but, well, sometimes trouble just comes in a ruby red dress with a low neckline, and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.
She was trouble, of course, but she was also an eyeful and then some. More so after the scotch I'd been working on since ten that morning, but even without it, I would've at least heard her story.
She reminded me of a case I had a couple years ago, finding and returning a stolen necklace — turns out that the necklace wasn't my client's, though, who was just a good con artist. I caught the deception just in time and managed to slip her a fake, but it turns out she had the last laugh: as she left out the back, the cops knocked down my front door from an anonymous report that I was the thief. It was harder to convince them that I wasn't, after she left the cash on my desk.
That's the danger, of course. Those types, you should just send them back out, don't let them say a single word. It's never a good ending with dames like that; I count myself lucky for only spending thirty days in jail.
The kiss, though, right before she left — that memory burns hot on a cold, dark day.
"Mister Pace?" she asks, her voice as soft as moonlight on a lake.
"No, ma'am; he's out for the day. Name's Jack Trillen." I respond. Two names on the door has been the policy since I started this line of work. Caught a tip from an old timer; it allows you to duck some of the bad news that comes in and double bill the clients, and they're usually none the wiser. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Elsa Spencer, Mr. Trillen. I- I have a problem." She pauses, and I can almost see her winding up. Before I can cut her off, she promptly bursts into tears.
Not the first time a gorgeous dame has come into my office and turned on the geysers, though. I take a moment and then pass the glass of scotch I'm holding to her. She takes it with shaking fingers — almost seems real — and then takes a large gulp.
That's a mistake, and I watch as she sputters, coughing, and blinks back what's likely to be real tears.
I give her a half-smile, a touch more than is necessary. "I keep the good stuff for after a case, Miss Spencer," and note, though I shouldn't, that she doesn't correct the 'miss' part. "Sorry if it's not to your liking. But if you really want my help, you're gonna need to play it straight with me. Otherwise, maybe you're best going down the street."
She wipes her eyes dry as I wait patiently, pouring myself another glass, and giving it a sip. After the sixth glass of the day, it doesn't taste as much like paint thinner.
"I'm looking for someone to solve a mystery, Mister Trillen, from a long time ago. A man once stole an item of mine, and I'm wondering if you could get it back for me." She looks around the office, and I purse my lips.
"I know the office looks a bit frayed, but it saves me from having to put everything back together after the cops and thieves come through. A hazard in this line of work. And I'm gonna need some more details than that, sweetheart. Something of sentimental value, I presume, or you wouldn't be shedding tears over it, right?"
"A hazard," she repeats, but shrugs and turns back to me. "The item I'm searching for — yes, it has sentimental value. It's a necklace, you see, and I misplaced it a couple years ago."
I had a couple drinks in me. Well, more accurately, I had a couple drinks out of me and a couple more stewing, and one in front of me, and what it all comes down to is that it took me a bit more time than I would've liked to put it all together.
"A necklace that you misplaced a few years ago? Sounds like the trail's probably cold, Miss Spencer. Not sure what help I can be with you for this, unless you have some more information. A lead, you know, what we call it in our business."
"As a matter of fact I do, Mister Trillen," she says, and something about the way that she says it makes me shift uncomfortably, makes me glad that I had a gun under my trench. Dames out for blood weren't something you usually saw, but this suddenly felt different. My sixth sense had kept me out of trouble more than once, but right now, I was feeling like I should've sobered up, that I had picked the wrong morning to be too many drinks in.
She reaches under her dress, letting it ride up — slowly, too slowly for it to be anything but for my benefit — and picks out a photograph. And then she tosses it in an arc to the table, where it lands face-down.
I don't need to look at it, though. I've finally recognized her, even without the necklace I fastened around her neck, the last time we saw each other. But before I can even reach for my gun, she has hers out, pointed straight at my heart.
"Where is it, Jack?" she asks, all cold steel and soft velvet, and my head isn't foggy anymore. She went by another name back then, and I remember it now, along with her face, and her voice.
Well, fuck.
"In the safe, Bridget." And then, without prompting, "Thirty-seven-forty-two. I'd ask how you found me, but I'm not sure I'm in a position to be asking questions."
She smiles. She knows why I used that number, and I know that she has entirely too much leverage over me right now — not including the snubnose revolver that isn't wavering an inch.
But then she walks forward, and after standing there for a moment with the heater held meaningfully against my ribs, she reaches up and I'll be damned if she's not kissing me again, and I'm remembering the taste of her lips, the feel of her fingers through my hair.
"I'll be seeing you again, Jack," she says.
-
You never come out ahead with dames like that, but sometimes, you break even.
It might be the kind of leverage that you have over your clients — knowing when they're faking the tears, for example, or when they're actually scared for their life. Or it might be the leverage that someone has over them — photos of an illicit affair, a figurine that was promised and lost, or a person dead and the signs pointing to them as the ones who done it.
Sometimes, though, it's the leverage your clients have on you. You try and resist, always, because you know it's bad for business, but, well, sometimes trouble just comes in a ruby red dress with a low neckline, and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.
She was trouble, of course, but she was also an eyeful and then some. More so after the scotch I'd been working on since ten that morning, but even without it, I would've at least heard her story.
She reminded me of a case I had a couple years ago, finding and returning a stolen necklace — turns out that the necklace wasn't my client's, though, who was just a good con artist. I caught the deception just in time and managed to slip her a fake, but it turns out she had the last laugh: as she left out the back, the cops knocked down my front door from an anonymous report that I was the thief. It was harder to convince them that I wasn't, after she left the cash on my desk.
That's the danger, of course. Those types, you should just send them back out, don't let them say a single word. It's never a good ending with dames like that; I count myself lucky for only spending thirty days in jail.
The kiss, though, right before she left — that memory burns hot on a cold, dark day.
"Mister Pace?" she asks, her voice as soft as moonlight on a lake.
"No, ma'am; he's out for the day. Name's Jack Trillen." I respond. Two names on the door has been the policy since I started this line of work. Caught a tip from an old timer; it allows you to duck some of the bad news that comes in and double bill the clients, and they're usually none the wiser. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Elsa Spencer, Mr. Trillen. I- I have a problem." She pauses, and I can almost see her winding up. Before I can cut her off, she promptly bursts into tears.
Not the first time a gorgeous dame has come into my office and turned on the geysers, though. I take a moment and then pass the glass of scotch I'm holding to her. She takes it with shaking fingers — almost seems real — and then takes a large gulp.
That's a mistake, and I watch as she sputters, coughing, and blinks back what's likely to be real tears.
I give her a half-smile, a touch more than is necessary. "I keep the good stuff for after a case, Miss Spencer," and note, though I shouldn't, that she doesn't correct the 'miss' part. "Sorry if it's not to your liking. But if you really want my help, you're gonna need to play it straight with me. Otherwise, maybe you're best going down the street."
She wipes her eyes dry as I wait patiently, pouring myself another glass, and giving it a sip. After the sixth glass of the day, it doesn't taste as much like paint thinner.
"I'm looking for someone to solve a mystery, Mister Trillen, from a long time ago. A man once stole an item of mine, and I'm wondering if you could get it back for me." She looks around the office, and I purse my lips.
"I know the office looks a bit frayed, but it saves me from having to put everything back together after the cops and thieves come through. A hazard in this line of work. And I'm gonna need some more details than that, sweetheart. Something of sentimental value, I presume, or you wouldn't be shedding tears over it, right?"
"A hazard," she repeats, but shrugs and turns back to me. "The item I'm searching for — yes, it has sentimental value. It's a necklace, you see, and I misplaced it a couple years ago."
I had a couple drinks in me. Well, more accurately, I had a couple drinks out of me and a couple more stewing, and one in front of me, and what it all comes down to is that it took me a bit more time than I would've liked to put it all together.
"A necklace that you misplaced a few years ago? Sounds like the trail's probably cold, Miss Spencer. Not sure what help I can be with you for this, unless you have some more information. A lead, you know, what we call it in our business."
"As a matter of fact I do, Mister Trillen," she says, and something about the way that she says it makes me shift uncomfortably, makes me glad that I had a gun under my trench. Dames out for blood weren't something you usually saw, but this suddenly felt different. My sixth sense had kept me out of trouble more than once, but right now, I was feeling like I should've sobered up, that I had picked the wrong morning to be too many drinks in.
She reaches under her dress, letting it ride up — slowly, too slowly for it to be anything but for my benefit — and picks out a photograph. And then she tosses it in an arc to the table, where it lands face-down.
I don't need to look at it, though. I've finally recognized her, even without the necklace I fastened around her neck, the last time we saw each other. But before I can even reach for my gun, she has hers out, pointed straight at my heart.
"Where is it, Jack?" she asks, all cold steel and soft velvet, and my head isn't foggy anymore. She went by another name back then, and I remember it now, along with her face, and her voice.
Well, fuck.
"In the safe, Bridget." And then, without prompting, "Thirty-seven-forty-two. I'd ask how you found me, but I'm not sure I'm in a position to be asking questions."
She smiles. She knows why I used that number, and I know that she has entirely too much leverage over me right now — not including the snubnose revolver that isn't wavering an inch.
But then she walks forward, and after standing there for a moment with the heater held meaningfully against my ribs, she reaches up and I'll be damned if she's not kissing me again, and I'm remembering the taste of her lips, the feel of her fingers through my hair.
"I'll be seeing you again, Jack," she says.
-
You never come out ahead with dames like that, but sometimes, you break even.
