Rain hammered the city like it had some kind of personal grudge. Neon bled across the soaked pavement in tacky reds and sickly greens. From my third-floor office I watched the streetlights writhe and flicker like a tired pole-dancer; smoke from my fiftieth Lucky Strike curled toward the ceiling fan that hadn’t worked since Truman was president. The bottle of Jack on the desk was half empty. So was I. That’s when the door opened and she walked in. She stood there like trouble in a tailored dress, the rain had flattened her bouffant and smeared her make-up. The kind of dame who could make a man forget his name, his rent, and every promise he’d ever made. Her large almond eyes did a slow inventory of the room and landed on me like I was the last drink in a dry town.
The city was a dame with a busted nose and a cheap perfume habit. She never slept. She just lay there in the dark, waiting for the next sucker to bleed-out on her sidewalk. That sucker was me. Name’s Dade, Beau Dade; private dick with a penchant for Lucky Strikes and a bum-ticker. I find things people lose; usually their morals, sometimes their husbands, occasionally both in the same lousy weekend.