Evan (Three of Ten)

Now I know why Hemingway drank so much. Writing ain't easy. Bourbon makes it go down smoother. Not that I mind this too much. It's kinda nice, pretending I'll live to see sixty, make it to retirement, tell my kids these bedtime stories. Well, not bedtime. I tell them at bedtime, they ain't sleeping.

I ain't an alky. I'm a personal investigator. Just so happens one of the unwritten PI rules is that you need to drink to sleep through the night. It's funny, money problems keep me up, so I drink to pass out. More I drink, more I need to drink to pass out. More I drink, more I buy, and the worse my money problems get. Worse my money problems get, worse my sleep gets. It's one of them oar rowboaters [Trace and I were discussing the symbolism of the ouroboros. He liked the possibility of rebirth, believing that in his next life, if reincarnated, he would have accumulated enough karma to merit something better. “Maybe a garbageman or a teacher” is how he put it. -Dara].

Alcohol's only a problem when it interferes with your life. Hell, it makes my job possible. Some guys get information by going out and beating up everyone that knows more than them. Some people toss money around like confetti, watch where it lands. You usually read about them in the obits. Some dames shake their hips all around town. Me, I go to bars and listen. People don't talk until they're comfortable. Truth is, people love to talk. They want to tell you their secrets. You just gotta convince them to trust you, and no one trusts a guy in a bar, doesn't drink.

Sure, I track other leads. Can't spend your whole life in a bar. Sometimes, leads come outta left field, you gotta chase them down. A lot of the time, you find out stuff sharing a cold one. The other good thing about liquor, makes you strong, makes you harder to poison. And I gotta lot of enemies. Some of em might be crazy enough to try to poison me.

Evan (Two of Ten)

Look at the guy two weeks back, Evan. Suit fit him like he was sewn into it. Shoes so shiny and fresh, they hadn't seen pavement before yesterday at the earliest. Fine shave, not a trace of stubble. He got it probably a couple of hours ago, cause of how hairy he was. Backs of his hands were like fur mittens.

He looked the part just fine, but then he had to open his mouth. It was like watching someone read off cue cards. His voice shook when he said “Mr.” and “Ms.”, He forgot his lines and said “dem f------ apes,” “shot the s--- outta Jess,” and “fish food in the ocean.” Real raspy voice, couple packs a day for maybe a decade. He wanted us to find the guy that killed his wife.

When he handed Dara the wad of cash as a retainer, two things went wrong. Nobody ever pays me a thick stack that isn't $1 bills up front, and he couldn't even bring himself to let it go. She had to pry it from him. He kept leaning in, ready for action, not talk. When he turned to leave, I could feel his steps in the floor. Real flat-footed, he never had to learn how to step light.

Soon as he left, Dara and me looked at each other, then at the five g's. Felt crisp, new, clean as sunshine. He probably borrowed it from the mob at a hundred percent. Ain't no one know about the state's you sure he [Trace means usury. -Dara] laws. Gotta figure that he was some slob worked in construction, maybe a teamster, but didn't want to go through the union. Love makes people do stupid things, like ridiculous loans so they can get revenge.

Evan (One of Ten)

They say you shouldn't sleep where you work. I don't, I just sleep next door to where I work. Building's zoned for residential, but I pay rent more or less on the regular. Still better than most everyone else in here. Super gives me a break, but I think he's keeping me around just so he can throw me out one night, big smile on his face when he does it.

If you come in, first thing you're gonna see is Dara sitting at the big desk with her computer. I got the small desk to the right cause the light from the window helps me read the paper. Setup like that, most people come in, can't figure out why the looker redhead is doing the detective thing. “Tracy” on the front door doesn't help.

Throws a lotta people off. These days, I let them talk to her first a little bit, before introducing myself. Amazing how many slobs can't deal with a pretty face, just let themselves get stupid. Most of the time, after they leave, we try to figure out what the real story is. If you're coming here, there's the story you tell us, then there's the truth. They're like trains passing each other, except that when the lies and the truth meet, there's a train wreck.

Two kinds of people come here. You got the poor, can't go anywhere else cause they can't afford to, I'm their last hope. They mean well, but some of them treat me like dirt, because they been stepped on their whole lives, so they need me just to feel a little better.

Then you got your Richie Riches, their watches worth more than I make in a year. They got something to hide, from the authorities, from their family, from themselves, so they come to me. Thing is, like the poor, I'm their last hope. They also mean well, but some of them are just used to stepping on everyone didn't grow up with a silver spoon in their mouths and a funny accent from up north.

That's what I'm here for. Good to know I can help.

Mark (Five of Five)

Ain't never a standard case. We learned that the hard way. Had to track down some sleaze named Peters, ducked out on his family and stuck them with a bunch of gambling debts. Mob was starting to squeeze them, they were starting to get desperate. Cause he spent all their money, they didn't have much choice except to come to us.

Why didn't he leave town? Probably cause he didn't want to go on the run. People don't know how hard it is, leaving behind your loved ones. They think they could just up and leave if they won the lottery tomorrow, and they could. Problem is, that money won't give a damn when you come home at night, ain't gonna listen to you complain, and you can only get so intimate with paper. It's just money. You can make more money. You can't make more family. Well, kids, yeah, but they don't replace what family you got.

We looked like gumshoes, trench coats flapping, guns in hand, hats held down with other hand. Raining hard, like a bunch of wet needles. We trailed him to his motel, cornered him. Mark knocked on the door, told him to come out peacefully. That was when I saw the door explode into him, blowing him backwards. Shotgun blast, near point blank. I can't forget his screams, like a wounded dog. He kept twitching.

I didn't hear movement inside. That didn't mean he just up and disappeared. He knew I was still outside. We had ourselves a fine standoff. We talked for a few minutes, real casual, calm voices, like we were old friends seeing each other after ten years apart. I threw down my piece in the doorway. He came out, the shaking barrels trained on me, snot bubbling from his nose. You push people, you find out just what they're capable of. He wasn't a real criminal until he killed someone, that Peters. Now he rated the newspaper.

He backed all the way to the parking lot, got in and drove. I couldn't care less, I went over to Mark. He looked like raw hamburger, sounded like a slowly deflating balloon. Couldn't do a damned thing except hold him for the next few minutes, talk to him while whatever made him special leaked out of him. Once it was all gone, he stopped panting. I had to close his eyes. They felt like grapes. I haven't eaten a grape since.

I took his gun before the paramedics took him away. Popped the clip, took out a bullet, all bronze-like and innocent. Never been fired. I kissed it, slipped it in my pocket. Still got it, it's around my neck now. That's where I came up with the name, Kissing Bullets. It was my last good memory of Mark. Dara, you wanted me to name this thing? I'll one up you.

Mark, this is yours more than anyone's.

Mark (Four of Five)

Six months in, our running joke was we weren't real PIs until we killed someone, only we'd replace PI with other jobs. It made sense at first, doctors, mobsters, cops, but then we ran with it, chefs, waiters, schoolteachers. We always thought about the big time, where we'd get that one case with some millionaire too rich to go the authorities, too dumb to come to anyone but us. There we'd be raining bullets every which way, coming through untouched, kind of like the four-colors in the Sunday funnies. That was different, back then. We didn't know better.

Another slow day, we were joking about librarians, how we weren't real librarians until we killed someone. Bore them to death with a lecture on how to organize the stacks. We were also cleaning our pieces. I didn't name that one, but it was my first. Real beauty, Colt .45 revolver, sat in my hand like home. Mark had a Glock, he was loading his clip. Every bullet he thumbed in, he kissed. I told him that kind of action was out on the corner for twenty a pop.

He told me it was his signature, kinda like how they would draw crosses on silver bullets before shooting werewolves. I told him he was drunk and this wasn't the movies, but he didn't want none of that. Told me it was all about what it meant to him, that each bullet really could be the kiss of death, his kiss of death. Kissed the tip of the bullet as he said it. I told him what else he could kiss.

Mark (Three of Five)

Me and Mark, I met him at the academy, we got our PI licenses and rented out this hole in the wall. Something blue dripping from the corner, weird hump in the middle of the floor, rats everywhere. But it was cheap, it was in the middle of the city, and it was safe. Weird, cause it was in the worst part of the city, but it was like being in the eye of a tornado. Stuff happened all around us, there was always a lot of potential business, but nothing happened to us, at least not in the building.

The hardest part, that first year, getting people in the door. Had to figure, every time a scream woke me up in the middle of the night, that coulda been a job next morning. But we couldn't find enough clients. We also learned when you gotta choose between getting dinner, keeping the lights on, or getting a drink, you don't get picky about what you do. After a while, things got better, but I'da done anything for a buck those days.

That's the thing about being a PI, you do things you thought you'd never do for money. I never thought as a kid, when I was getting my guts tenderized by someone's fists, I'd end up taking pictures of fat guys and pretty women for a living. They can't keep it in their pants, and I keep a roof over my head another week. Another thing, sneaking up on slackers and handing them a court order, telling them they've been served. I even been a bodyguard every once and a while.

When I talk to strangers and they're trying to be friendly, they ask me for good stories, I know they're thinking of the murders and thefts and rapes. It's human nature, you wanna hear the worst of everything, because it makes you feel better about yourself, you're above that, you weren't the slob on the other side. When I start describing process service in the middle of a lake, eyes start rolling. They don't get it. Things you don't expect make the best stories.

Mark (Two of Five)

I'm gonna try not to make these too long. I got respect for those people with the fancy sheepskins on their wall that write enough to kill a forest. Me, I'm just another PI loaded with six shots of bourbon, and no cases to go on. Well, there's Miz Becca in 3-B, and her lost cat. Every week for a year now, she asks me if I found Fluffers, and every week I gotta break her heart. Dames. There's also Von Braun, the super. Asked me if I found last month's rent. Funny guy. I told him I should pay him extra for the comedy act.

The name on my door says Tracy Lowell, but only my mom and my secretary call me that. You can call me Trace. Everyone gets one warning. Last guy called me Tracy a second time, he's got a scar on his knuckle where his fist met my teeth, and twitches when he lifts his beer. I ain't saying I'm a great fighter, just that you won't make that mistake again.

Mom meant well. She didn't want to name me James, after my deadbeat dad ran out on her two weeks before she gave birth, so she named me after her granddad. It's fine, but kids got no respect for history. Or girl's names. I can count on one hand the times I came home from elementary school without bleeding. What could mom do? Go to school and tell the slacker principal? Bullies get a week's detention, come at me twice as hard when the week's up.

Can't blame them. I woulda done the same if I was them.

I joined the Silver Gloves soon as I turned ten. Hoofed it an hour after school to get to the gym, then hitched rides back home. Sometimes I worked so hard I'd throw up all over the place. It hurt worse than the beatings in the ring, but I had to keep going. Bullies weren't gonna let up until I showed them I wouldn't back down, and even then. By that point, it was more like brothers; I hated them, they hated me, but damned if we couldn't be apart. Guess that's why I get along so well with people after fights.

Golden Gloves wasn't too much better, but at least I knew how to take a punch by now, which is more than a lot of them had. I held my own, and it got me ready for the academy. I don't want to talk about the academy too much, but let's just say we weren't like brothers.