It was clichéd, it was annoying, but damn it felt good.
Damien Drake was actually whistling as he strode toward his small office in the plain, Medical Arts building.
Whistling, and smiling broadly.
Last night had been good… no, it had been great.
And the woman—who he had later deftly determined was named Alyssa—she had been even better.
Drake sipped on his coffee as he walked up the first flight of stairs—he couldn’t remember the last time he had taken the stairs when there was a fully functioning elevator—and when he made it to the door emblazoned with the words Triple D Investigations, he was surprised to find it unlocked.
He pushed the door open.
“Hello?”
Screech, who in addition to being Triple D’s techno-wizard also acted as the secretary, was sitting in his chair, a pair of earbuds jammed in his ears. He didn’t look up when Drake entered.
“Screech, take the fu—”
Drake caught himself before cursing.
Screech wasn’t the only person in the office, he realized. The four chairs that they had optimistically pushed off to the right—worn burgundy things that they had scavenged from the dental office below them that was undergoing renovations—were filled. Not only that, but there was a woman in a walker leaning awkwardly against the wall.
Drake tried to disguise his shock with a smile.
He never took the stairs, and these chairs were never full.
“Good morning,” he said.
Three of the four women, who were all gray-haired soup slurpers, raised their heads and returned the greeting. The fourth appeared to be sleeping.
What the hell are they doing here on a Sunday? On any day? He wondered.
“I’ll be right with you,” he said, still smiling. He strode over to Screech and yanked the earbuds out by the cord. The man yelped, then his eyes widened when he saw it was Drake.
“Hey Screech, can you by any chance see me in my office for a minute? Please, if you aren’t busy, of course.”
“What in the fuck are they doing here?” Drake asked in a hushed tone once the office door was shut behind them.
Screech’s eyes bulged.
“How the hell should I know? My guess is that Mrs. Armatridge told her bridge buddies about us.”
Drake stared at his partner for a long while, trying to get a glimpse into the inner workings of his brain.
“What?” the man said, recoiling slightly. “You’re looking at me like I got two heads.”
Drake ignored him.
“Mrs. Armatridge? Really?”
He was picturing the woman with her pearls, and then the strange expression on her face as she pulled the knife from the cutting block.
But then his mind flicked to the check worth ten grand that he had already cashed.
Drake pushed his lips together and rocked his head back and forth.
“Well shit, what are we waiting for? Let’s get them in here and see what we can do for them,” he said with a grin.
Screech nodded, turned, and walked toward the door, a spring in his step. His hand grabbed the doorknob, but before turning it he paused.
“Wait a second… wait just a seeeeeecond.”
Screech turned to face him, a sly expression on his face.
“What?”
“Why you so happy? You come in here, whistling, clicking your high heels together like Dorothy on speed. What gives?”
Drake went to his desk and sat. Instead of answering, he concentrated on shuffling papers aimlessly across the worn surface.
“You fucking sly dog,” Screech said with a chuckle. “You boned last night, didn’t you?” he looked toward the door, peering through the frosted glass at the hunched shapes in the reception area, then turned back to Drake and leaned toward him. “You got your tip wet, didn’t you?”
Drake laughed; he couldn’t help it.
Tip wet… sick.
“Shut up, Screech. Just keep your mouth shut and let’s make us some money.”
It was nearly noon by the time the last of the octogenarians scuttled out of Triple D like some sort of clutter of spiders. Drake was tired, tired of placating old women, of speaking at a louder than average voice, of repeating the same thing over and over again.
But despite his minor hangover and major annoyance, the smile on his face remained. It would take a lot more than this to make it go away, he realized. When they were finally gone and he was alone with his thoughts, he even resisted the urge to pour himself a drink.
“Screech! Get in here!” he hollered.
A moment later, the door opened and Screech’s narrow face appeared in the gap.
“Yes, Leisure Suit Larry?”
Drake made a face. Screech’s references were slowly degenerating into something reminiscent of Chase’s. Obscure pop-culture nonsense that always flew over his head.
Drake took his time in answering, and the impatient Screech rolled his eyes.
“What is it, boss?”
“Come on in, sit down.”
“Okaaaay,” Screech said, doing as he was bid. “What’s up?”
Drake let the man suffer a little while longer, but soon the charade was even starting to get on his own nerves. He reached into the top drawer of his desk, grabbed the four checks and threw them down.
“Seriously?” Screech tittered and grabbed the checks, eyes widening as he looked at them individually. “You closed every one of them?”
Drake held up his hands and forced a smug expression onto his face.
“What can I say? The going rate has been set.”
Screech laughed again.
“Well, I’d say that forty grand deserves a drink to celebrate, don’t you?”
Drake shrugged.
“Yeah, sure, what the fuck.”