The rain was pouring outside my window, curtains so thick you couldn’t see more than three steps in front of you. It kind of reminded me of the curtains on my windows, honestly. I really don’t want to walk to the office in this, I thought. So I sat down at the table and poured myself a glass of bourbon for breakfast, waiting for the storm to break. By the time it was over, the rain was still pouring, so I gave up waiting and walked downstairs.

My father named me Hugh. My mother named me Jim. Last name’s Bissel. I’m a private dick.

Rain tends to keep the clients away, so I had to pass the time working on yesterday’s crossword puzzle. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with a 5-letter word for cat, so I gave up and went back to staring out the window. It was a few minutes later when the bell over the door tinkled to let me know that I had a client. So I straightened up my tie and turned around.

She was $5000 dollars worth of trouble poured into a $1000 dress that clung to her curves like honey. The fact that her makeup looked effortless meant she’d gone to a lot of trouble to put it on, and her black trench coat, open enough to show off some collarbone, made the skin on her hands and throat gleam under the rain and the jewels. They were real, even if it was arguable whether her eyelashes were. As for her… other assets? Two firm pillows up top and legs that went all the way to the floor. I’m a detective; I notice these things.

“Word is that when a girl has troubles, you’re the man to come to,” she said in a voice that made me look down to figure out whether my pants had shrunk in the laundry.

So... if you're wondering why this guy doesn't seem very bright, say his name out loud.

What kind of trouble? Up to my partner. Am I trying to play up almost all of the film noir/hard-boiled cliches here? Abso-fucking-lutely. (Pun intended. I'm an dad IRL; all my jokes are dad jokes by definition.)