One of the rules of the gumshoe business is this: don’t let personal feelings get in the way of a clean job. I followed Paul Lorre to his house. It was a straightforward drive, down privileged streets lined with pencil-thin sidewalks. My Buick was as out of place as a wart on Susan Hayward. If he saw me, that was good. Over-confidence is every sap’s downfall. I didn’t know Lorre, only by reputation, and I didn’t like him. He had that monied attitude that put the sour in my belly. But I pushed that aside. I wasn’t paid to like him.
He lived on Upper Riverside, in a neighborhood loaded with swells and their chunky Edwardians. The houses hung fat shadows over everything like they were supposed to. Lorre made his money after the War, turning land into gold through some tidy alchemy that most chumps don’t understand. He had a knack for it, and it was barely this side of legal. I didn’t dislike him for his money; I disliked him because he wore it on his face, all the time. The clever man with a sneer, a man who thought he owned the world, or the prettiest piece of it.
Lorre wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t surprised. He parked his Nash in the driveway, and escorted his sugar-baby to the front door without a qualm. She was just another rich man’s entitlement. My camera was loaded, but something felt off. Way off. It felt too easy.
Another rule of the gumshoe business is this: trust your gut; if it feels wrong, it probably is. (Steve)
Was there more to this case than just exposing Lorre as another lying, cheating son of a bitch? Just for a moment, I heard that little voice in my head, agree with my rarely wrong gut. I put down the camera and decided to dig a little deeper into both the beautiful woman who hired me and Lorre. (Alexis – https://atribeuntangled.com)
He was the Golden Boy who tried his best to keep me from throwing myself from the roof of the building. And then the Gin won out over the foggy future prospect of a police pension and I found myself on the outside, broke but free from all the bullshit the city bosses shoveled downhill to cops who did the job. Golden Boy had a wife and three kids and kept his shoes shined. He stayed and I managed to get out before all the pinches with busted lips and the mugshots with turbans caught up with me.
“Carlisle. How’s the kids?” The phone booth stunk and something slippery and dark was on the floor.
“Shithead. You only call me when you want something. The kids have all had birthdays since the last time I heard from you. She may be knocked up again. I need to make sergeant, soon.”
Golden Boy was working burglary now. On his way up the Inspector’s ladder from missing persons. But he had access to the card files and knew every clerk downstairs in records. If there was anything I needed to know he could find it. If he didn’t get caught… (Mike Fuller —https://mikefullerauthor.com)
Bastard. He wasn’t going to pass on an opportunity to make me feel shitty for not remembering his kids birthdays. All part and parcel for squeezing a few extra greenbacks out of me for a job. “You’ll make sergeant, get sergeant’s pay, and still take an arm and a leg from me for every call, you son of a bitch. At least your intuition’s still on point. I do need a favor.” I whistled out the nervous breath I’d been trying to hold back. “You hereby have my permission to verbally lay me out after I tell you who it is I’m scouting and why.” (K’lee – (https://obzervational.com)
Join K’lee (https://obzervational.com) and me in the adventure. Add a few sentences or paragraphs in our respective comments, along with your name and site address, and you’re in! No prior gumshoe experience is necessary.