Chapter THREE

Every case has a beautiful client — that someone to fill the role of Damsel in Distress — and a horde of lowlifes to complicate matters. I learned right away that you can’t assume what actors are coming to your stage or what roles they’ll play when they get there.

~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935

I GAPED AT IT, KNOWING perfectly well it wasn’t something I’d forgotten in my purse. A flat, crisply folded piece of paper. I read it, twice, three times, then crushed it in my hand. My fingers froze. I turned around a dozen times, to check who was where and doing what. As they say, "just ‘cause you’re paranoid doesn’t mean someone isn’t out to get you."

The street tunneled down to a pinpoint of sound and threat. Every movement rattled my attention and twisted my core. Didn’t take detective school training to know — the man who’d bumped into me had dropped it in my purse.

Sprinting to the office, in the Fox Theater Building at 1352 Market Street, Suite 333-A, I was greeted by the completed sign on the far window. The painters had done a good job. And for a moment, I chose to ignore the crumpled note in my hand.

My office was on the third floor, overlooking Market Street, a couple of blocks from City Hall, out in front of the Civic Auditorium. Situated on the southwest wing of the building, I had a great view of the street. The decorated arch above the Fox Theater marquee was as iconic a frontage as any building had the right to. The building offices had separate entrances to each wing and the occasional difficulty of having to claw your way through a line of unyielding ticket-holders.

The more I thought about it, the more I dismissed the note as nothing more than a creeper writing out his sickness rather than whispering it in my ear. Or, shouting it at the world.

I wondered if the guy might be one of Mason’s cronies — a notion heating me up faster than anything else today. I wouldn’t put it past Mason to be petty. Mason's embarrassment changed the situation — he was acting on impulse driven by his wounded manhood. He wouldn’t call in official help after he’d been pummeled by a woman he’d blackmailed. Especially because he’d taken a beating from a woman.

Then, of course, my original premise still held up under scrutiny; the man from the alley, with the knife, was responsible for the note.

No. I was wrong. It wasn't Alley-man. I’d been in disguise, and it had been dark and raining, and my sense of Alley-man was his bulky overall presence. The note-leaver left me with the impression of being thin. But no. It wasn’t Alley-man.

I let my breath flow out with all the tension. I had more important things to do than to pay attention to the note I shoved back in my purse. Much better things.

I love the window now. It didn’t only welcome me, it declared me, Lou Tanner, heart, mind, and soul — a flatfoot — a Private Eye.

There are plenty of barriers for a gal like me to overcome. And I need to get past them right quick. Rent was due soon enough.

Hell, since Investigations is the chosen title, as opposed to “Investigator,” it suggested a whole company full of employees, and one might go so far as to mistake me for the secretary.

That reminded me — I needed a secretary. Maybe I should hire a man for the job — to be a wiseacre and throw this man’s world for a loop.

The letters were in blue on a cream-colored rectangle. They were also painted on the reverse, so everyone in the building across the street could read them. My neighbors were no doubt thrilled. Thrilled if they can see it past the bright red and white “Fox” sign for the theater downstairs.

I stooped to pick up the mail dropped through the mail slot. The paper slipped from my arm, and I scrabbled to catch most of the sheets before they hit the floor. I dumped the whole mess onto the desk and tried to make it look purposefully arranged.

Scrounging it out of my purse, I looked at the note one last time. I’d invented a couple of explanations, but I had proof of none of them. Still, a creep or Mason made the most sense.

I wadded it up and threw it into the waste basket with some energy. I’d stay alert in the here and now, because that's what real detectives do, but I was done with the past.

I shook off those pesky thoughts. I wasn’t wasting any more time on the nonsense of those men. I had a business to run. Today or tonight was the first step on a trail only I would blaze for myself.

Standard San Francisco weather normally only consists of two weather patterns, fog and not-fog. One or the other. Never both. Of course, four seasons exist, but they’re not seasons, not the way I remember seasons while growing up in upstate New York. Out east, one has spring, summer, fall, and winter. Here, we have Rainy, Hot, Foggy, and Earthquake. Oh yeah, Earthquake Season. A little ham-fisted temblor gave us a shake down only a few days ago.

Look, if it doesn’t knock over the bookshelves or rearranges my furniture, it’s not something too exciting. Certainly not at 4:30 am. Nothing is exciting at 4:30 am. Almost nothing.

Thunder and lightning, though, aren’t usual around here. Rain? We have rain. We have fog that thinks its rain too, tries really hard, then retreats back out to sea.

Just get ‘em in the door and I’d convince them they needed me. A twenty-five-dollars-a-day-plus-expenses kind of need.

And of course, who could ignore the damn cat? Curled up on the radiator. Black as midnight. A little extra fluffy – he had been wet and then groomed himself into a show piece. One pink toe on the left, rear paw.

I don’t know whose cat he was. A street cat or stray? He decided to take advantage of the painters and movers going in and out of my office, to make himself at home. Under normal circumstances, I’d send him on his way with a big scrap of lunch meat, but with the squalling weather outside, I couldn’t bring myself to abandon him to the rain. Thus, the little sneak gets a pass for the night.

Desk, arranged in front of the window, like the boss’s desk should be. Check! Name plate. Check! Telephone. Check! Tidy stack of files – though, with nothing in them yet. Yeah – okay – check! Picture of Mom and Dad. Sam Spade didn’t put a picture of the folks on his desk, but he doesn't have my family, and I was proud of my family. Big check!

He was in Gumshoe Heaven now. And if I didn’t do anything too stupid, I’d join him there some day. The Investigator’s Valhalla. That dear old mug will be waiting for me with a hug, a cup of Java, and plenty of stories.

Pemberton’s - Chapter 40: Setting Up Shop. The Pemberton’s manual had a nice list of items all investigators should start with. A gun was first amongst them.

I didn’t need more. I’m a P.I. That’s it. Nothing more or less. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be and looking at that painted window, I know I’m where I need to be. The thought warmed me even more.

I hooked my wet overcoat on the hat rack along with my hat. Tossing the rest of the mail down on the unoccupied secretary’s desk, I limped through the separating doorway and over to my desk.

My gams were killing me. My dogs were barking, though the cat didn’t care. I slipped my high-heels off and let my calf muscles stretch. I dropped my purse into a drawer with one hand while shaking out my brunette curls with the other. With all the walking I’d done today, I was sure I’d worn a hole in the toe of my stockings. I knew how to mend it if I had. I wasn’t sure where I’d left my needles and darning egg.

Sitting in my Boss’s Chair caressed my ego. Cushy leather and sculpted back support. Me and my ego could reside in that chair for a long, long time. Turn off the big, overhead light. Let the Fox sign warm the room with a glow of red. Lock the door – lock out the whole world. Pull the bottle of bourbon out of the drawer and to hell with a glass. I’m the lady my mother raised me to be, but in private, I’m only little ole me and I’m willing to swill. No need to dirty a glass.

I’d left my copy of this week’s pulp magazine collection in my coat. I hoped they weren’t creased. It’s a weakness I embrace — I love reading about the exciting lives of detectives, fictional and otherwise. It was also a good resource for learning about potential players in the Crime Game. A who’s-who of gangsters, grifters, and ne’er do wells.

The weather cleansed my troubles and the events of the past few days faded into the hinterlands of time and shadow. Out of sight, out of mind.

The rain was hammering the window now, which didn’t bother the cat in the least – he knew he was safe and dry. The occasional light show broke up the sedating rhythm. I stretched my legs out and clutched the bottle to my stomach. Old Forester Bourbon suits my tastes. I blame Philip Marlowe. He gave me my first bottle of that amber nectar.