Drivel: This is my most serious/ambitious undertaking yet, and as such
I'd would really appreciate C&C, especially constructive information
regarding such things as characters, plot line and dialogue. The last is

the most important. All material here(concepts, characters and
situations
are copyright myself, Jerico Mele, 1998-1999 and cannot be used w/o
permission, though I'm rather easy to convince(ha, someone wanting to
use
this. I tell a mean joke, don't I)

Private Dick,

 I'm not sure at what point I realized something was wrong that
day. Perhaps it was after the first fist smashed my face, or maybe the
second kick to my stomach. Don't get me wrong, I've taken worse
beatings,
but this one was humiliating. I guess I should start at the beginning
for those of you who haven't been following every last detail of my
life.
I am Jerry Mills, Private Investigator to anyone with two thousand
dollars a day. And in 2011 AD that was chump change. Work is work I
always say, or I would if I wasn't spitting blood at the guy who just
punched
me.
 I was in a little bar a couple of blocks up from the scenic
Seattle waterfront, one that had once been a nice Irish pub called the
Owl and Thistle. Now, however, it was a place to go to watch people do
things to other people I would rather not see.
 Well, you might ask, if I didn't want to see it, why was I
there? I already told you, a job's a job.
 "Mr. Private Dick, I presume,� said a guy just outside my
restricted view. Restricted because there were three goons holding me
against the bar and my head was in a full nelson.
 �And you are?� I ask in my nicest voice.
 �The management. Look, Mr. Dick-�
 �Call me Penis,� I interrupted. I received a good slug in the
stomach for my joke. Probably not worth it.
 �Mr. Dick, I would really rather not have to hurt you any more.
Despite the club I run, I am not a sadist.� I kept my mouth closed. �I
think if you left, and didn't come back anytime soon, things would be
a good deal better for us both.�
 �Sure, Captain. Just one question.�
 He stared at me, expression clearly saying �did you hear
anything I just said?� I was used to that look.
 �Did you have anything to do with the previous owner's monthly
payments doubling?�
 I got a couple more punches for that one. It was answer enough
for me. Fortunately for me, the manager tired of the game. �All's fair
in business my friend. Remember that and you'll go far.�
 Don't worry, I answered silently. I learned that lesson from
my fianc�. And you�ll learn it when the little gizmo I planted in your
sound system goes off in an hour.
 I got muscled over to the door, a couple of cheap shots thrown
in for good measure. The bouncer tossed me out into the parking lot
right in front of the old Thistle and gave me a witty �Don't come back,
fuck head.� I love the incredibly funny remarks I get from bouncers.
 I picked myself off the tarmac and dusted myself off. I gingerly
wiped the blood off my face with the back of my hand and started off
towards my car. The couple of guys outside looked at me, probably
wondering what it would have taken to get someone thrown out of that
bar.
 I guess I�d have to tell Jack that I hadn't come up with anything.
I could put it off till tomorrow, though. I reached my car and pressed
the button to open it up and start the motor, pausing to take a look at
the city around me. It was overcast, natch, and about fifty, well within

par for April in Seattle. I remembered a much nicer city, the Seattle
of 1998. Of course I would think of the past. I mean, private
investigators
were relics of the bad days of the nineties. Days when people thought
the only thing left for them was Armageddon.
 Now a days its all talk of how good the future's going to be.
Just wait, everyone says, things will turn out great. At least according

to my fianc�. I pulled into traffic and heading back home, on the old
dilapidated freeways that still littered the skyway. I checked the side
panel on the driver's door for my gun.
 Grey was still there. Better safe than sorry, I always say. I
guess I always say a lot of things.

 The next day I called Jack up. I broke it to him easy, telling
him I hadn't found anything new. I mean, there wasn't much we could do
about it. The same people who had bought Jack out owned most of
the waterfront, and controlled a good portion of the �law� in the area.
Nothing new there. Jack held out against reason and tried to get any
proof he could to get his bar back. With a sigh Jack brought up the one
thing I was dreading.
 �I can get you your payment next month,� he said with a very
light Irish accent. �I'm sorry about it but it all Social Sec-�
 �Don't worry,� I assured him. �I'm sure my dad still owes you
for a bunch of drinks. It's the least I can do.�
 Jack made the standard excuses, but we both knew he couldn�t
afford me. It wasn't like I needed the money too badly. After I hung up
I started thinking about my dad. He did owe a good deal of money to
Jack, and he wasn't going to be paying any of it back. Its hard to earn
money when your residence is a pine box.
 God, life sucks sometimes.

 I left West Seattle around ten in the morning. I already had a
case planned, one I had picked out of the three left there on my web
site. A digital detective to the end. Besides, I had to keep those
programming skills I learned in college alive. Damn, why'd I think
about college? That was exactly what I didn't need to think about before

a case, my primary failure in life.
 I sped up, cutting off a subcompact as I shifted lanes. Stupid
fucking Sunday drivers. Never in a hurry on their day off. I turned at
the off ramp, trying to remember the easiest way to get to this lady's
house. A big mansion in the financial district, just shy of the radical
section of Seattle suburb. I passed the manmade lake, took a left at
the statue of Lenin and followed the road for a couple of miles.
 �Two hundred sixteen Alliance Drive,� I muttered to myself. I
thought over the message the lady had posted. I think my husband is
cheating on me, she had written. I'm willing to pay twice your regular
fee, plus expenses to compensate for the level of discretion  Ill be
requesting of you.
 I�d be lying if I said it wasn't for the money. That was about
all that had kept me in the business. That and the dogged arrogance that

had gotten me into this line of work in the first place.
 I pulled into the driveway of 216 Alliance Drive. Or should I
say the road that led to the driveway.
 This house was huge. It was roughly the size of the apartment
building I lived in, and cost at least three times as much. I felt
positively
grubby in my trench coat and battered fedora. And I didn't even think
of bringing my gun Grey in with me.
 I killed the engine when as I stopped at one of the entrances.
A half second after I got the door closed I was confronted by a
manservant.
He was a big man, impeccably dressed for an occasion much more formal
than the arrival of a private dick.
 I mumbled thanks as he took my trench and directed me to the
solarium. As I marched through the ornate halls and expensive arches I
reflected on my surroundings. All that I remember is the conclusion
that a solarium is the most useless room that could be built in a house.

 Once I saw the solarium I wasn't as dismissive of its purpose.
The room was warm, in that sunny, happy way that I wasn't used to. The
single person in the room made me feel a bit warm as well, in a less
sunny way.
 Cynthia Portiere-Helms was a beautiful woman. She seemed to be
between my age and that of, oh I don't know an 18-year-old. I couldn�t
tell, and honestly didn't care. I try to make it a habit of mine not to
research a client before I meet them, just to keep an unbiased opinion
of them. So I was completely shocked at Cynthia Portiere-Helm�s
appearance.
My first opinion of her husband was he was a fool if he cheated on this
woman.
 I noticed her lovely lips twist slightly, as if something was
funny. Probably me. I dressed like an anachronism, in khaki pants and a
buttoned down shirt, no tie thanks. I just wanted to look like as much
of a private investigator as I could, at least when on business.
 �Mrs. Portiere-Helms,� the manservant announced, �the detective.�
I didn't really like the way he said detective.
 �Mr. Mills, please have a seat,� she said warmly. Damn she�s
beautiful.
 I plopped down on the expensive couch, pulling a pad and paper out.
I can't stand those personal digital assistants people so love. I think
better on paper than silicon anyway. �Mrs. Portiere-Helms it�s a
pleasure to meet you.�
 �Please, call me Cynthia.  It�ll save us both a good deal of time.
I told you in my email that I believe my husband is cheating on me.�
 From where I looked I didn't think that was a very good idea.
Beautiful, very intelligent, and charming, as well as naturally bright
red hair. Man I'm a sucker for redheads.
 �Do you have any evidence to support your claims,� I said, skipping
over any more formalities. I tend to do that in normal conversations,
and in this case it served me well. I studied my pad intently as not
to stare at her.
 �Three facts,� she said calmly. �One: he�s been working overtime
for the last two months. I mean real overtime, close to eighteen hours
a day with one day off a week. Two: I found a strand of hair on his
jacket, from a female with what appears to be white hair. Three: I
found this in his jacket pocket the same
day.� My opinion of Mrs. Cynthia was improving with each point. She
had done careful work to find information on her husband, and hadn't
jumped to any conclusions. I had had cases with women who were
downright hysterical over no evidence at all. I actually liked those
cases, since I was essentially being paid to confirm that the husband
was being faithful. It was rare to have a case where things turned out
right in the end.
 She handed me what she had found in his jacket. It was a small
square of fax paper, with the logo of the bar I had gotten beat up at
the night before. Randy old husband.
 �Do you think he�s gotten bored with the, um, relationship?� I
asked. Damn, was I being bashful?
 Definitely not in character for me.
 �You mean �how�s the sex life?�� she translated, still smiling
wryly.
 �In a sense, yes.�
 �Fine. I'm not exactly averse to the more exotic activities out there.�

Could that have been a hint? Settle down Jerry, you�re reading too much
into
things again.
 �So the two of you are still enjoying marriage? Not just the
sex?�
 �We get along fine. That�s why I want to know what�s going on.
But tell me a bit more about yourself, detective. I�d like to know
something
about who I'm hiring. Something besides the brochure if you please.�
 �What would you like to know?� Was it me, or was the temperature
in the room going up?
 �What are your qualifications in this line of work?�
 �Fully certified by the Washington State�s Private Investigation
Division. Two years of school in criminology, top of my class, and
six years of college before that.�
 �College? Where did you go.�
 Shit. I didn't want to talk about this. But she was smiling now,
making small talk. I could learn a lot about the case from this
conversation.
Right, that�s all you�re thinking about Jerry, the case.
 �Brandeis. Three years undergraduate and three in the grad
program.�
 �Really? What did you end up with?�
 �I dropped out before I finished my Master�s thesis.�
 �Oh. Sorry,� she said. �I didn't mean to pry. I'm just curious
as to why you picked this line of work. Your web site was incredible.
You
 have a good college education. Why be a private investigator?�
 �Seemed like a good idea at the time.� That was my standard
answer. I�d given it to so many friends, family members and strangers
it was second nature to me by now. I�d said to my fianc� so many
times it was like a mantra.
 �Really?� she asked, slightly surprised. �I�ve read some of
your papers, the ones on adaptive networks and the parallels to the
brain. You seemed to have an obsession with the brain and physics.
Why�d you throw that away?�
 She�d read my papers? The only place they were published was in
a couple of journals, none of which were noted for high circulation.
 �Where did you find my papers?�
 �I went to college too you know. I studied linguistics at Yale
for four years. Those papers were on a reading list for one of the last
classes I took there.�
 Damn. Damn, damn damn damn. I didn't want to hear this.
 �That�s great, but I stopped that along time ago. I�d much
rather hear about your husband�s job.�
 There we go Jerry, focus, take control of the conversation. I
settled back into the comfortable sofa/tanning station and lifted the
pen.
 �My husband works in finance, for AmBanks. You know, they just
opened branches on the west coast?�
 �Sure. What does he do there?� I asked, jotting down notes on
the pad. I kept my eyes studiously on the pad, avoiding the way her
skirt
was riding up her leg.
 �Well, he doesn�t go into much detail, but I know he supervises
special investments. Usually in the sciences.� She paused, looking at
me seriously. �He has a serious hobby in science, I mean if you look
at his library you�ll see what I'm talking about.�
 �Where�s his library?� I asked, interested in what a banker
could find intriguing in the fast paced world of scientific research.
 �In the bedroom.� Rationally, I thought, I should ignore that
particular answer. Hormonally Ill dissect it later. �Would you like to
see?� She�s laying it on thick, I thought. Very thick. Is she just
toying with me?
 �That�s quite all right. Look, its getting late,� I said, feigning
a look at my watch. �Since I don't really have time to get a full days
work in Ill only charge you for half a day of work. Sound fair?�
 �I really wouldn�t worry about it. I�ve already deposited money
for ten days of your time, at double rate. I�d like you to get back to
me with as much information as you can as quickly as possible.�
 �Certainly. I'm sure you�d like to get this all behind you as
soon as you can. Could I have that hair strand?�
 �Sure,� she said, getting up. �Ill walk you to the door.� God,
she moved like a dancer. Ignore it, Jerry.
 �Thanks,� I muttered as we came to the door. I had the distinctly
unfamiliar feeling of being an adolescent saying goodbye to a girl I
liked. I hated it.
 �Have a good afternoon, detective. Manfred will walk you to your
car.�
 �I hardly think that�s necessary.�
 �Indulge me.� The way she said it made various mental images
pop up in my mind. I got the paranoid tinge that happens every so often
when I hope that no one can read my mind then I silently followed the
manservant who had directed me in.
 �Nice car,� Manfred said as we came up to the Crown Vic. �What
year?�
 �Ninety two. I converted it to methanol, so she�s not worth too
much as an oldie. Great car though.� I love it when they compliment my
car. I'm sure she does too.
 �Have a good day, detective.�
 �Ill try,� I said as I started the Crown Vic up. The quiet hum
of the methanol engine relaxed me. I love this car.
 As I pulled out of her driveway I checked Grey out of habit.
Still there, along with the two new disposable clips I had bought for
it. Damn gun was expensive, wouldn�t do to have it stolen or lost now
would it?
 I slowly pulled out onto the main road, and away from the sexually
loaded rich woman who had just hired me. I started thinking about how
big a deal everyone made of adultery. In that peculiar logic of
horny men, I dissected the word,  �adult� and �ery.� Just being an
adult.
Rationalization is such a silly enterprise.
 I reached into the glove box and pulled out the �just in case I
want to start smoking again� pack that I had been replenishing for a
couple
of years now. I lit it as I thought about what to do next. I�d have to
get a DNA sample from the hair strand, and do a little research into
Helms. Tomorrow Ill put the old tail on him, see what he does.
 I drew a long drag from the cigarette and accelerated into the
other lane, letting the oversized police engine pull the heavy car up
into the 90�s. As I was pulling onto the highway I saw one of the big
LCD screens that replaced billboards a few years back. There was a happy

woman holding some product or another, telling us how great it would
make our lives. I�d been hearing the same crap all my life, and it
hadn't helped me a damn bit.

 Deep in the financial district of Seattle I parked my car. I
swiped the debit card through the meter, thanking whatever gods had
allowed me a parking spot on a Sunday afternoon. I noticed the flash
as it picked out the little barcode on my car. It would charge me by
the second, and track the location of the car. Fine with me. Simple
civil
liberties like anonymity would always take a back seat to money.
 I crossed the street, still a couple of blocks from my destination.
Big Willie�s Pawn Shop. One of the few traditionally seedy places still
left in Seattle. I picked my way through the consumers and into the
Pawn shop.
 �Jerry! How you doing?� Big Willie said from behind the counter.
 �Fine. Yourself?� I said, getting the strange smell that always
accompanied him. Not a bad smell.
 Just not a good one either.
 �Good. Been busy lately.� Big Willie was always busy. And
always here. Every time I�ve come in to the shop, it was always Willie
behind the counter and plate glass. Willie was as close to a kindred
spirit as I had found in Seattle. I met him when I first started doing
detective work. Back then, almost five years ago, I wanted to bust him.
He was a lynchpin in Seattle crime, but not in the way normally
associated
with pawn shops. He showed me the error of my thinking, quite painfully
I might add, and we�ve been buddies ever since.
 �Still got that PCR machine back there?� I asked innocently
enough.
 �Sure,� he said, eyes twinkling in that way that lets me know
he�s wondering what I'm working on. Big Willie was interested in
everything,
that�s why he got into the pawn business. �Looking for an illegitimate
child or something.�
 �An affair.� I said simply as I pulled the hair out of the plastic
bag I�d put it in. �And since she�s paying double I figure Ill spend a
little of that cash to make my life easier.�
 �Getting lazy in your old age aren�t you?� Willie joked.
 �Fuck you, Willie.� Always good to be articulate.
 �Up for a beer?� he asked after letting me into the back room of
the pawn shop. Willie collected all sorts of things, from technological
relics to literature of all kinds. Willie was someone who had nothing
to do except collect things. The upkeep for his store was practically
nothing. He had joked when we first met that I could probably afford it.

And people came to him to sell him things. Mostly he was a fence
though.
 We passed through the sheet that served as a door to the technology
wing of the Big Willie Museum. I had impressed Willie with my knowledge
of his collection, when he had first shown it to me almost two years
ago.
He brought me down here every once in a while, usually when he had
something
good that he had found, bought or stolen.
 Sitting in the back, along a wall
of old LP records, was the PCR machine. Clustered around it were
the various other talismans that still worked, from a Unix workstation
to a full collection of ginsu knives, Big Willie had everything. The
old PCR machine was humming silently to itself in diagnostic mode,
green lights flashing in a seemingly regular pattern.
 Something inside me told me that if I could find the pattern to
these seemingly random flashes then I would know the true structure of
the universe. Rubbing my temple as I watched Willie fire up the
machine, I noted it was going to be a rough day.

 Two beers later I was on my way home. The PCR machine would give
me some data to work with, and Willie had promised to send it my way
when it was finished, sometime around three. As far as I could tell,
Willie didn't sleep.
 �Catnaps,� he would say when I asked him about it.
 �Speaking of naps,� I muttered as I parked the Crown Vic in the
parking lot behind my house, �It is definitely time for bed.� I knew
Willie would be waking me up early so I decided to get an early start
to sleep.
 On a little dry erase board I had gotten in my first year in
college I jotted down the important things I had to do the next day.
First: get match for DNA from Crime-Net. Then follow Mr. Helms around
for a day, while doing a little research into his job at the bank. PS-
the last one�s for myself. I�d like to know exactly what kind of job I'm
missing out on.
 Finishing that up, I stripped down and plopped onto the couch.
I forgot to mention that I don't have a bedroom didn't I. Having the
woman who would be your wife tell you that you were the most disgusting
thing she had ever seen and she didn't want to think about me and
another
woman because she would feel sorry for the woman has an effect on
someone. I�ve got a thick skin, but hearing that from a woman you love,
I mean loved, is a little harsh. Besides, it�s a great couch.
 I laid back, remembering the joke about the old man in the bar
who complained about his nick name. �You fuck one sheep,� I said
quietly.

End Part One