I glanced at the clock; it was 5:35.

Working for a private detective was supposed to be exciting. It was supposed to be my entrance into a world of intrigue, action, and damsels in distress. Mostly, it was a way to escape, exist a little bit more towards the margins.

Instead, I’d spent the day looking through old newspapers, making pointless phone calls, and one run to the corner store for whiskey. I swore if he made me throw back another shot of whiskey “for luck” I would spit it back in his face.

His chair creaked from within his office, and a second later Nick Beretta—the man, the legend—was bursting out of his office. At times I loathed him. Once or twice I considered how to kill him.

Mostly, to my utter shame, I admired the drunken bastard.

Throwing on an overcoat and a fedora he barked, “Be at the Topaz by 7:00. Eyes and ears, Tugger, inconspicuous-like. Got it?”

“Got it, sir. And should I…you know…pack heat?”

He sighed, “Yes, but don’t call it that. And wear somethin’ nice.”