NOIR
It was a dimly lit bar in a dimly lit street. The kind of joint you might slide into to forget your troubles, plot some more trouble, or meet that secret, seductive somebody you really shouldn’t be cheating with.
The place was hazy with cigarette smoke. People were seated at small, wooden, circular high tables. Couples were hunched over in quiet conversation, sipping drinks. Some were just alone. A few more were relaxing on leather sofas at the back of the dark and stale-smelling seating area.
I was seated at the bar, of course, on a faded wooden stool, a glass of Jack Daniel’s over ice in front of me. I was alone, the bar itself devoid of the the usual dejected, disillusioned souls that would normally adorn the empty bar stools at this time of night.
The name’s Carlos Vespa. I’m a PI. That’s Private Investigator for the uninitiated. Yeah, I wear the black trench-coat. The old stereotype. Why not? Looks cool. I’m a quiet man, a lover of jazz music, bars and quiet contemplation.
I’ve been doing this gig for about 15 years. Now, in my forties, my investigations are mostly pretty small-time. Mostly. Things like spying on suspected cheating spouses for their worried partners, the occasional missing persons case, stolen items.
But nothing prepared me for my latest case. An event triggered by the buzz and bright flash of my cell phone as it rested next to my half empty glass in this very bar, as I sat in this very seat.
This is how the story goes. Let me tell you...it’s been a hell of a week.
