The cold grey sky of downtown Boulder became dotted with flakes of falling snow.
The writer is beginning this story breaking the “rule” of not starting out with a description of the weather. He doesn’t give a rats “bahooty” about rules. Now he’s just making up words ( bahooty is not in the dictionary). He’s a rebel. Hell, he may even drink the old gallon of milk in his refrigerator. He’s pretty sure it’s at least a week past its sell by date. So yeah, don’t mess with him.
If one where to gaze up at the top floor of #1313 Pearl Street, one could see the figure of our hero1,Frank Bronski, surveying the area. There is much to know about Frank and that knowledge will be revealed as the story unfolds. One question our dear reader may have is why a man in his mid thirties in the 21st century would act and speak as though he is a character in a Sam Spade novel. That is a question for which there is no obvious answer. Sometimes the all knowing narrator doesn’t know as much as he pretends.
Boulder is a town of free spirits so when Frank was out and about wearing a trench coat and a fedora no one gave him a second glance. On second thought , maybe some folks check to make sure he’s wearing pants. I’ve monopolized the story enough. Take it away Frank.
“I dragged my peepers up and down the street and glaumed no sign of trouble. Is “glaumed” the correct slang? See, saw, glaumed? I think so. In this case trouble is anyone that looked like a landlord type. I’m not exactly a paying tenant. What I am exactly is a squatter. This gumshoe gig is new for me and I needed to have a respectable office location. Unfortunately respectable is pricey in downtown Boulder. All I could afford was an embarrassing stall at an out of the way strip mall. Out of the way in Boulder is nowhere near town.
Because of it’s high real estate prices, downtown Boulder never seems to be lacking in available space. I was taking advantage and making one such space unavailable.
No one seemed to be aware that squatting was being committed so I threw up a temporary sign outside the door. The sign was temporary but I had spent some time and a steady hand spelling out “Bronski Private Detective Agency” in hopes that it would look somewhat professional. I thought the word “Agency” made all the difference in the world.
By the old clock on the wall it was five minutes before an appointment with my first client, a babe by the name of Desiree Simpson. I hope the clock wasn’t slow, it came with the office. As if on cue the clock decided it had enough and promptly fell off the wall.
I settled into an office chair behind an old ratty desk, again accessories that came with the office. I then heard the high heel driven footsteps of who I hoped was my client. The door slowly opened as a redhead with sunglasses poked her head in. Satisfied she wasn’t going to get jumped, the rest of her body, including a pair of long legs followed.”
“Desiree Simpson,” he asked.
“Yes and you’re Mr. Bronski?”
“Yep the sign is not lying. What’s with the cheaters?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, sometimes my lingo runs away with me. The sunglasses. Why the sunglasses? It’s not sunny”
“No it’s my poor attempt to avoid being recognized.”
“Oh?”
“I am fairly well known in quite a few circles in this town, enough that I don’t want anyone seeing me walking into a detective agency.”
Frank didn’t tell her that being seen walking into an abandoned building may be worse.
“That’s an Interesting sign you have there”.
“Yea I like it because I can turn it around at the end of the day and it spells “Closed”.
Swell, she thought and wondered if this guy was the right guy for the job.
Up next “The Gig”
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