Six Ways to Sunday

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Jonathan tossed his felt hat on his desk as he shut the door behind him. His name had been printed on the distorted glass three years prior. Already seven years into the Depression and he hadn’t so much as anything lighter than a nickle leaving his pocket. But rich men and women wanted things and such people had deep pockets. That’s not to say times were always easy but sometimes a man had to drum up his own business.

The women were always the best customers. They often had nowhere else to go either because the cops were corrupt, they didn’t care or a case had just turned cold. Some were willing to pay a lot, and the poorer ones in various other ways in order to have their breadwinner returned home to them. Without an income the family would be lost for jobs in the city were impossible to come by. He’d chosen the right racket to join.

Before he sat down behind his desk he removed his revolver, placing it inside the top drawer. The holster joined its partner moments later. It hadn’t been used today, or ever. The more he stayed in the shadows the better off he was. The way they portrayed his occupation in those detective noir films just weren’t accurate. But he wasn’t about to downplay the heroism or womanizing features Dick Tracy portrayed.

One more appointment laid ahead of him before he’d end the day. Leaning forward he heard over the phone that his appointment had arrived. It was another disappearing persons case. If the police couldn’t solve them they were almost impossible but there was always hope. Jonathan returned his answer over the closed wire to send the girl on in. Within minutes he’d find out if it was worth his time and effort to take on what she was seeking.[/ATTACH]

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Laura Thompson was desperate. She needed help. No one at the police station would listen to her. They laughed at her when she told them her story about her brother not contacting her for the last week!

She had asked around. Even at the small club she worked at. It wasn't the best of the clubs, not the classiest of clients, but it was a job. Something most needed these days.

Some had suggested this Jonathan guy, what choice did Laura have? She contacted his office immediately and made an appointment.

Which was why she was here right now. It seemed Jonathan was her last chance. She hoped against hope that he wouldn't say no nor turn her away.

The snotty receptionist told Laura that the detective was ready to see her. Laura practically rushed in, there was no more time to lose...

As Laura pushed through the door Jonathan busied himself by pulling out a small glass and a bottle of brown liquid, its label worn off, its name indecipherable. The warm booze flooded the glass to the brim before he raised the bottle to cap it again, hiding it away in a bottom drawer. It was the Depression. If you weren’t drinking, you weren’t human.

Reaching for the glass he brought it to his lips, his nostrils inhaling the sharp smell before he tossed the fluid down his throat in one go. It seemed he had little trouble in swallowing the stuff without a chaser. Everyone had to be good at something.

Sliding the glass toward the corner of his desk he finally acknowledged the presence of the woman who he invited in. The days were gone when he worried what those people thought, about him drinking while he decided if he should take them on. If they were here, they were desperate.

Without standing up he spoke with a half-hearted smile, offering the well-worn wooden chair sitting across from his desk, “Welcome. Have a seat and tell me about your missing person, if you have anything that might help me in the case and if you can pay.”