PI Noir: Dead Men Tell All Tales (1/?)
Title: Dead Men Tell All Tales
Author: xhihi0x
Summary/Notes: A Noir tale written for Artemis of the Crows on gaia. Gritty Detective, Raymond Chandler-drawing on, and all that. x)
Rating: Language.
Chapter 1: The Beginning
5:30 on a Friday afternoon, and the sky is as dark and dim as the sleet black sole of Mr. Tirani’s shoe.
Trees outside dead and bare as a corpse. The people besides. Winter.
The moon’s too bright and everyone’s huddled indoors.
I don’t like to think much about nights like these. They remind me too much of old cases…the Dwayne case, the Elliot case…
But most of all, the Lichian case.
What a fucking mess.
I still see her standing there now, Mrs. Isadora Lichian, standing delicate and firm and fragile yet haughty in her slicked down dress with the red ruffled skirt and the delicate waistcoat with those always shiny little gold buttons, her blonde, tightly curled hair blowing in the wind, the moon shining on her face.
That sight will haunt me forever.
---
The thing started innocently enough.
It was two minutes past nine'o clock in the evening, mid December, three years back, with the streets bleak with cold and no snow to be found. I was wearing my old slate-black suit, with cement-grey shirt, crumpled-bright-blue-striped tie, old gray slacks and shined shoes. I was sloppy, a little dirty, and sober, and that had been my default for this time in the evening. I was everything you'd expect the private detective down on his luck to be. I hadn't called on money or had money call on me in twenty years.
Twenty years ago, I wasn't a PI.
Nothing happening, and nothing to see. Three minutes past nine'o clock on a Tuesday evening. Not a respectable time for any dames worried about cheating husbands or husbands worried about cheating dames to show up. Not a reasonable time for most who've lost something to knock on my door. So I put my foot up on my clock-metal gray rusted old desk and stared at the clock. Exactly half-past nine was my leaving hour. So I did what any self-respecting, bored PI would do, half-closed my eyes and daydreamed of being a Chandler character, blue-suited, competent and in a depressing world full of intrigue and beautiful broads.
Better than this world. Just as depressing, no pretty broads.
Suppose I'd was a Chandler character. I'd be dressed in powder-blue pin-striped suit, down to the nines. I'd be sleek-jawed, steel-nerved, and the broads would love me. I'd sit at my desk and a knock would come at the door.
I'd call in a deep voice, "Enter."
And just then, a beautiful woman would walk into my office. She would have long dark hair, down to her chest. She'd have smouldering eyes, black as tar. She'd be wearing a long blood-red silk dress with big dark-maroon-red feather hat and be watching me. I'd take one look at her and know that she had money. Lots of it.
She'd have a murder case.
She'd give me an impish look and I wouldn't be moved. She'd say slowly, in a deep, dark, breathy voice, "Mr. Detective."
"Yes?"
She'd take a little breath, a little whiny noise with her throat. She'd look with those dark eyes at me and say, "I've a case for you."
I'd reply, "Oh?" , as cool as can please. She'd want to move me, to affect me. She'd sit her plush behind on my desk, kick her long legs, and lean close. "Mr. Detective, please," she'd breathe, and put a hand on my chest. She'd trail a hand down my chest, and kiss me-
Except-.
Except-.
Except she didn't?
Even daydreams are uncompliant. Heh. That's life.
"Mr. Detective?"
Dumb daydream. Shouldn't bother. World's so bleak sometimes that it needs a little light, though. I straightened my tie and sat up, eyes still closed. Wasn't the first time daydreams became dreams. "Dumb daydream," I muttered to my bare, empty office. "Didn't even let the dark haired broad kiss me."
"Mr. Detective."
Annoyed, dark voice. Felt like I heard it before.
"Excuse me, MR. DETECTIVE!"
I opened my eyes a crack. The dark haired broad from my daydream was standing before me. Imperious. Elegant. Mad as all hell. I put my feet down. Sat up.
"My apologies," I told her. "What seems to be the matter?"
Not sure if this is reality. Generally, beautiful women with money don't walk into my office. She'll have a murder case, then I'll know I'm still dozed off.
She glowered at me through those dark eyes. "As I said, I have a case for you." She walked to the dirty-asphalt-gray window, her stoplight-red heels going click click on the dusty gray floor. She looked out into the dark streets. "My husband has something in his manner lately. A bit of a twitch- a little different gaze. I fear that he is cheating on me. Please follow him."
Ah. Reality then.
She turned to me, nervousness in those dark eyes. "I'll pay you for it now."
Nervousness is an odd thing to see on such an elegant woman.
"Fine."
She put a stack of green bills on my desk, an address, a schedule and a photo.
"I want you to watch his every move until I am satisfied he is not cheating on me. I will be satisfied if you can keep tabs on him until January 14th. I'm paying for your services upfront."
"Sure," I said.
"The name is Isadora Lichian. My husband is Dart Lichian. I've given you his general routine and our address. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Detective?"
"No, that's fine," I said.
She eyed me up, and walked out of my office.
...Nervous, wasn't she.
I glanced at the clock. Quarter to 10. Picked up my slate-gray coat and briefcase and kit, packed the bills away. Time to go on home. Maybe have a drink beforehand and do my usual relaxing routine.
I shut the door behind me and locked it.
That was the start of it all, I guess.