Looks like it was a new dawn, a new day, a new life for me. And boy, was I feelin’ good.
Why? I finally got a job. A real job, this time, not some cheating spouse or lost dog. A real detective assignment straight from the CCP.
The Chicago City Police had been tracking this crumpled schmuck for a couple of months now. He first popped up on their radar for some unpaid parking violations. When an arrest group was sent for him, the guy displayed some suspicious tendencies, so the cops asked to be let in. The guy showed a Tommy gun and an officer saw some burning government documents. Because they knew a warrant would be wasted and no charges could be registered, the cops hired me to follow the guy and find out what was happening.
Me? I’m Peter Damon, PI. Sure, it may sound cool, but the job’s a crapchute. This is my first real commission in half a year, and I’ve had to take up a second job as a lampshade-mender. Yeah.
But tonight was my night to shine. To change all of my shade-mending ways. I was told this guy had called in and cancelled all appointments for today and the rest of his life at his doctors. Sounded like he was planning on skipping town or using his necktie to support himself from the rafters. So I was going to trail him. With any luck, I’d unravel some new Watergate and gain more fame than Madonna.
Before I headed out, I stocked up. Grabbed my tan trenchcoat to pull over my suit, a GPS locator, bribe money, a car’s mini reflector mirror, a pack of matches, and, of course, my trusty revolver. Plenty of bullets, too.
My target on this rainy Chicago night was a Caucasian male in his mid-fifties, fairly overweight, in a filthy beige shirt and light brown necktie. He was headed downtown in an beat up Mustang, according to neighbors. The tracking device one of my contacts had planted on the guy’s car made it easy to find. I was able to drive right into the parking garage just as he was getting out of the age-old car.
I subtly followed the middle-aged man down Indianapolis Street to an ancient bar at the base of an apartment skyscraper. Before he entered, he dusted off his duds and straightened his dirty necktie as if he was putting on the ritz. I noticed him gulp as he pushed the archaic wooden door open.
When I entered the dive a few minutes after the perp, the bartender gave me a sidewards glance and told me to scram. I walked straight up to him and asked what his deal was, and he told me that today was a “members-only” day at the Gator. I looked around and saw the usual crowd of sots, down-on-their-luck salesmen, and pimps trying to rent their hussies. I nodded in understanding and slipped the gentleman a twenty.
His reaction floored me. He refused the bribe. Something big must be going down. Soon. I took out my wallet and plopped down a much larger bill, which he hastily accepted and glanced around, as if his life was on the line.
It might have been.
I shambled subtly to the empty seat behind my target and sat down, flipping over the dirty coffee mug to make it look like I was drinking. I didn’t look at my perp yet. No need. I checked the clock. Three to five. I took a faux-sip of faux-coffee.
In exactly three minutes, something odd happened. Every drunk, skank, and worker in the place looked at the clock all at once, save one Peter Damon. Then everyone left but me and my suspect. The bartender said something about having to get some laundry, and closed and locked the door behind him as he left. I sank deeper into my seat and pulled my flipped collar closer to my face.
Next, I heard two sets of dress shoes come up from behind me. I nonchalantly pulled the car’s reflector mirror out of my sleeve into my palm and glanced at the new patrons.
These two guys looked like a couple of CIA spooks from the sixties. Their actions mirrored that of the original Dragnet series. Barely moving, they questioned the poor tramp in the booth behind me.
The two suits asked only pertinent questions. From what I could gather, they seemed to be talking about some languishing stocks and unpaid dues. Perhaps the stiffs were corporate thugs or Mob goons here to collect on a bounty.
But before I could really get into their conversation, I heard a sound that made me instinctively reach for my revolver. A gunshot.
I ducked in case of more, but realized that I needed to see where and how my target was. By the time I gathered enough courage to peep over the top of the cushiony seat I was in, the suits were gone. I raised my head a bit more and saw that my suspect was as well. So was the blood.
Although I couldn’t see any gore from my angle, I’m pretty sure that there was no carnage, no DNA-rich blood, no hole in the seat. Impossible, right? That’s what I said.
Then I heard a siren outside. Looks like a patrolling cop heard the shot too and wanted in. Looked like I’d have to split.
I stood up, gave a quick glance back at the empty seat behind me, and left through the back. If the bartender let my description slip, my ass might be grass. Especially with no other witnesses and no alibi.
I saw no trace of my guy in the alleyway, so I walked the long way back to my car. I prayed to the Good Guy above that no one would remember my face walking into that bar.
***
After reporting that my perp had gone AWOL and declaring the whole thing a cold case, I settled back down into my usual business of fixing those damned lampshades.
When I finally thought that I could put the whole thing behind me, the shit hit the fan.
Two suits, probably from the DA’s office, showed up on my doorstep one day the next week. Shit, I thought. Someone IDed me.
When I opened the door (with my empty revolver at the ready in my coat pocket should I need an escape), I recognized the suits all too late. They were the stiffs at the door. That meant things were either much easier or much harder for me. I prayed they’d take a hefty bribe to spare me.
“Detective Damon?” one of the black-suited guys asked.
“Who’s asking?” Was my arrogant reply.
The guy gave me a look that said, “Cut the shit.” So I did.
“Yep. Peter Damon, PI. I know you saw me at the bar. You know that I heard the shot, that the guy at your booth is now probably dead. I also know that you’re here to do me in.”
The stiff that replied apparently ignored everything past my name. “You’re going to have to come with us, Detective,” the guy said in such an authoritative manner that I even loosened my grip on my revolver.
I sagged my shoulders and stepped out of my doorway. The silent partner of the talking suit slapped some cuffs on my wrist. So these guys were government. Secret government. I didn’t resist either way.
Then everything went black as I felt a small piercing feeling in my upper arm.
***
I woke up, still shrugging off the effects of the drugs, in a square white room with some metal furniture and a security camera high in the corner.
In about ten seconds, a group of three suits walked in. I recognized two of them as my arresters. They were all dressed in the same black suits and ties, all wearing the same shades.
I sighed as I prepared to accept my fate.
One of the guys sat down across from me, throwing a few sheets of paper on the metal table between us.
“As you can gather from our diminutive file, Mister Damon, we’ve had little trouble from you in the past,” the suit said to me in a completely neutral tone. In all my years of detective work (about three), I’ve never seen this. I’ve always been able to discern someone’s basic mood, their general background, and their stance with the law from their voice. This guy’s was so generic, so emotionless, so . . . electronic, that I didn’t know what he felt towards me.
The suit continued in a professional manner. “Which is exactly why we believe you will do the right thing when we ask you to . . . help . . . us.” My face could fool a poker champ with its calmness in every case but this. I raised my eyebrows in surprise and began sweating in hope. In a moment, I had it under control.
The government man in front of me pulled of his sunglasses and looked at me with some distant cousin of friendliness in his aged face. “Do you know what happened in that place of business, Mister Damon?”
I shook my head “no.”
The g-man explained, “My colleagues – ” he pointed to the other two men “ – were attempting to . . . apprehend . . . a certain threat to the system when the threat reveled to us that he had certain . . . abilities. Mind you, his powers were rudimentary compared to what my colleagues and I are used to handling, but he did catch us by surprise. My colleagues eliminated him quickly, but not before you fled the scene. This left us un able to provide an explanation.”
When I cocked my head in confusion, the suit showed a tinge of annoyance. “The suspect you were pursing was doing something beyond the normal realms of science, Mr. Damon. He ‘dimensionally shifted’ as my colleagues discharged upon him, taking them along with him to a different plane of existence.”
I cocked my head in even more confusion. I was no man of goddamned science, but I wasn’t a particularly fantasy-prone person either. This mumbo-jumbo was beyond my understanding, and it sounded quite looney. But I listened without question.
“Of course, that is irrelevant at this time. You’re merely here because you witnessed it and will never think the same again. You’ve been, in a sense, ‘awakened.’” The g-man paused before putting forth his offer. “Thus we believe that you might be able to help us. You’re exemplary background has proven your loyalty to the United States Government, and you’re secrecy about the incident gives us cause to offer you a source of employment within a secret branch of the government. Your salary will be triple your current and you will receive an Ensuringcare™ life insurance policy.”
I had one question to ask.. “Where do I sign up?”
The g-man gave the tiniest hint of a smile.
Looked like it was a new dawn, a new day, a new life for me. And boy, was I feelin’ good.
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