When Trouble Walks In

      It was a sticky-sweet sort of summer day. The office, with low-spinning fans doing nothing to cool us gumshoes off, was closed up tighter than skin on a tambourine. We were all there, in our shirt sleeves and wool pants, just waiting for her to walk in the door.

         I knew she wouldn’t come knocking. Not with the others around to hear her desperation. I’d never met the broad and I knew she’d come in desperate. They always do.

         It was half-past our closing time and I was the only one left in the sweat-soaked office. I glanced down at my watch and then back to the glassy door. Any moment, she’d come walking in and my troubles would begin.

         I counted the seconds as footsteps hailed her entry and when the door creaked open, the broad peeked her dainty head into the room and called out a name. Johnny Wagner.
         
         With a chuckle and a freshly lit smoke, I answered back casually, “You must have me confused with someone else. I’m just a slouch gumshoe. Langston.”

         The dame’s flustered, pushing her way into the room and sinking to a dusty chair. She sounded relieved spilling her story. Missing suitor, gone for weeks, no contact.  She wanted what they always want. Answers.

         After promising results and wishing good night, I slipped on my felted hat and jacket, locking the office behind me. Another cigarette, smoke tendrils looping in on themselves. The air is cooler than expected and I take a deep drag.

         Finding this deadbeat suitor’s going to be no problem. Another drag as I shove a hand into my jacket.

         The deadbeat will know where to hide. It’s a profession of his, hiding in plain sight. After all, I should know. It’s the same profession I’m in.