6:05. A slow news day.
Waiting for a story to happen in this town, I thought to myself as I toyed with the mess on my plate, is like watching grease congeal.
Setting down my cutlery, I wondered when I would eat like that again – getting paid by the word was no picnic without so much as a rat in a drainpipe to write about. Where was all the robbery and homicide? Damn the wise guy who decided to clean up this town without a thought to those who depend on a litte human suffering for a living.
It was then I clocked the guy who’d just come in off the street. The rain-stained overcoat and fedora, the lugubrious expression – he had PI written all over him. My senses prickled. Approaching the bar, he ordered a whiskey, threw it back and immediately ordered another, the cadaverous bartender obliging.
A third and he was done; he picked up his hat and strode out of the joint. I hastened to follow, snatching my things and throwing down some bills before heading after him. This time, I knew I was onto something.