It was a dame...

... It always was a dame. Or a bottle. But I'm sure this time it was a dame. My name is Rex Luger. It says so on my door. It also says I'm a Private Directive. I've still got to get them to change that.

The pounding in my head told me I'd had a meeting with Jack and the Ice Mob last night. Straight up. No Mixing. My gun was still there, and so was my wallet. So this was no cheap dame. She'd brought me a problem. They always do. Except my mom. She brought apple pie.

I lit a cigarette. The acrid smell added to the atmosphere. I didn't smoke. But it was expected. After coughing for a few minutes I hit the intercom and called Janice. She was always there. A secretary any other PI would kill for. Which I had. Blood may have been on my hands.

Just then the door burst open. It wasn't in the habit of doing that without provocation, and today provocation came in the form of Rats Maloney. He was a heavy for Carlo Schillacci. 280 pounds to be exact. He was out of breath. We were on the third floor.

"Carlo wants to see you" he managed to wheeze.

"I'll be frank," I started.

"No, you're Rex," he interrupted.

....

I have no idea. One of those inspirationless days. Though I did write one very short piece of actually good dialogue into the ole' Moleskine today. And tomorrow is Friday. So despite ongoing busy work stresses, I'm rather chipper.

Oh, and I made some lemon curd tonight. Private detectives do that kind of thing don't they?