Mumford-under-sea (15 minute read)
“Kind of conspicuous for a private detective, aren’t you?” The man delivered his statement and then stood by my table, as if he expected me to reply. It was a Monday and I was slumped in a chair in the Portway Heights Humanist Club. I was hard at work, nursing some bruises, sipping gin and watching the sun rise. Or I had been. Now I took time to look out through the open glass walls, I noticed that the sun was well up, floating over the azure sea like a fat drop of molten gold. The man was still standing there, watching me expectantly. “I mean, it’s a tad theatrical, wouldn’t you say?” I checked my reflection in the mirrored drinks cabinet against the wall. Black coat, white shoes, black hat, Cadillac. Yeah, the girl’s a time bomb. Actually, I didn’t have a Cadillac, but I did have a necktie with piano keys on it, and I figured that was almost as good in the present circumstances. The man was still standing there. My plan to let him get bored and wander off wasn’t...