I put my feet up on the desk and leaned back in my chair. In the bottom drawer was a half-full bottle of bourbon left over from the office Christmas party. I should bring it home - unprofessional to have alcohol at work. Just as I was about to put the plan in to action, in walked a conventionally attractive woman. No patch on my wife, though, of course, and the minor fact of her gender immediately became immaterial to me as I focused on the straightforward problem she presented. After we agreed on the scope of work and signed a contract, I put on my normal hat and normal coat (baseball cap and denim jacket) and carried the bottle of bourbon home, where I would occasionally make myself an Old Fashioned on the weekend after 8pm. I would tackle my new client's work during business hours next week, scrupulously documenting time spent and expenses accrued.
"mr storylets"
- he/him
- brunodias.dev/
writer (derogatory). lead designer on Fallen London.
http://twitter.com/notbrunoagain
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in reply to @johnnemann's post:
I think you've just described a non police Columbo
She was later killed under mysterious circumstances. I submitted a bill to her estate (pro forma, I didn't think anyone would end up paying it) and turned the details over to the police. I don't like working with them, but some things aren't a private detective's job.
As I cleared my things off the desk for the day, my gaze lingered on a faded photograph - a picture of me and my old partner. My best friend. Him and his nieces were coming down from Vancouver in two weeks for our monthly family fishing trip, but we still needed to decide on a campsite to reserve. I made a mental note to ask him about it during our usual evening catch-up chat.