Dirty Business of a Private Detective

Mac caught her silhouette first—slipping through the doorway; trouble wearing four-inch heels. Night pressed in on the street, thick and oily, but the neon sign over the bar fought it off with a sickly glow. Dirty Dick’s. The name alone could give a priest heartburn. Around here, the only dick they didn’t tolerate was the kind who asked questions for a living.

The sign blinked—once, twice, three times—then flared bright enough to shame the whole block. Places like this were meant to stay buried in the shadows, not lit up like a carnival. Mac felt grimy just looking at it.

But the floozy mattered. She could put a man in the clear or bury him so deep the worms would need a map.

Mac was being paid to keep him breathing.

She was already at the bar, clutching a drink like it was the last friend she had. Her perfume hit him from thirty feet out—cheap, loud, and desperate. He took a breath that tasted like regret and slid onto the stool beside her.

She looked at him with a flicker of hope, then let it die. “What do you want, copper?”

“I’m not a cop.”

She threw her head back and laughed, a smoker’s hoarse cough. “If you’re not a flatfoot, I’m Elizabeth Taylor.”

“You know who I am,” Mac said. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

The laughter stopped cold.

“Who shot Joe Burgman?”

“Don’t know him. Beat it.”

“He’s the dead guy.”

“So? People die.”

“The dead guy doesn’t matter to me. The guy getting framed does.”

“Bug off, copper.”

Mac pushed his fedora up, leaned in close. The stink of unwashed hair, stale sweat, and whatever cheap scent she’d drowned herself in made him turn his head.

“The man being framed is a good one,” he said. “If he goes down, folks will miss him. But if something happens to you… well, the world might just breathe easier. And something will happen to you.”

She blinked at him, eyes glassy. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“I’ll need some money.”

Mac peeled off a crisp Ben Franklin and let it dangle between two fingers. “Tell daddy everything.”

By the time he stepped back into the night, he had enough dirt to chase down a whole new parade of sinners in a whole new set of dives.

The stink clung to him and not even a shower would wash it off.

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