Paris France’s parents had a cruel taste in names. She’d never found an employer willing to put such an awful name on their payroll, leading her to the dingy world of the private eye.
The casino had been at its collective wits’ end when they hired her. Chips were vanishing for weeks before being cashed in by someone who hadn’t won them. Rumours flew of some illicit game among the richer patrons. The sniffer dogs had been useless, unable to detect the odor impregnated in all casino chips.
Paris was tired of searching. The 12th floor toilets sounded like a good retreat, but as she slumped over a sink, all hope of rest was driven out by a distinctively fishy stink. Paris knew a clue when she smelt one. She ducked down beneath the counter which held up the sinks and groped about blindly. Something squidged against her hand. She tugged. Down tumbled a tightly-tied plastic bag, packed with anchovies and poker chips.
On the outside was a message in marker.
“Sorry, I couldn’t find sardines. Can I play anyway?”