Hard-Boiled

Hard-Boiled

    I find that most of my problems start with pretty girls.  They walk in, all velvet skin and perfectly-styled hair, looking every bit the damsel in distress.  Before they even open their mouths, you know you’re going to help ‘em.

    And that’s always where the trouble starts.  They make it seem like a little bit of nothing, a quick fix, something a big, strong man like you should be able to handle in a jiffy.  But when you start to look closer, there’s a catch.  Always a catch.

    I suppose I should expect it by now-- after all, it’s always the same.  Take a job from a good-lookin’ gal, wind up in a heap of trouble bigger than you’re getting paid for-- that’s just the way it goes.  But how do you say no?  Maybe I’m just a sucker.  Maybe I’m not cut out for this business anymore.  Used to be, I’d take a problem and chew on it, hound it till it spat up its answers.  Solve the case, help the dame, go home and get a stiff drink-- everybody’s happy.

    Then this one came up.  Now I’m stuck over my head, and pride won’t let me back down.  I can handle a mook with a gun, or a strung-out junkie trying to roll me for a few bucks.  Hell, one time I had to hide a body for 12 hours to prove some poor schlub was innocent.  But this… This was something else entirely.  Maybe I’m getting too old for this gig, too soft. 

    I pulled my trusty flask out of my overcoat and slugged some back.  It was getting low-- I’d done the same thing four times in the last ten minutes, standing here trying to come up with an answer, but I had bupkis. 

    I looked down into the bathtub at the source of my problem. Not a body to get rid of this time-- but worse.  A fat, slick spider sat in the tub, glaring at me.  As I wadded up a paper towel to try to grab it, I retched slightly.  Yeah, I was getting too old.