Chapter One

Every detective has a few odd cases. It’s the nature of the job. Odd is a relative in the freelance side of the business. Of course every gumshoe has a limit. Every P.I. goes in with at least a vague idea of what type of case he’ll take, and which are a few paces past sane to make him tip his hat, and turn his back.  

Even though some started as beat cops with enough field experience to feel as though they’d seen it all, the right mess can make a man colder than a pair of concrete shoes or tenderized by drink every night.

The kids, out of training, the bookish ones who degreed their way into the business, they were always amusing, a flip of the coin. Maybe it’s the clinicism that creates instant cynicism and detachment. Sad though, such young hearts, too cold to see the human side of the stories they work.  

Mac had a little of both worlds. Failed his first try through forensic studies, and couldn’t afford the pay back without a job. He never wanted to be a cop, enforcer wasn’t a position for his nimble mind. He wanted to solve, not serve.  But, he did his time, ran through physical training like a champ, enjoying the challenge. Where his mind was too young to stay on task, his body focused and honed to perfection. Picking up dames was an equally formidable motivation. 

Schooling offered the technical savvy to see life as a case study. Working the streets taught him humanity, but not faith in it. Age and wisdom were lesson enough for the rest. There was little Mac hadn’t seen on the street or read in study.  

But, limits, that’s what we were speaking on. Everyone has them; then, and now. Mac hadn’t thought this changed much. But then he hadn’t worked with a ghost in a very long time.

Chapter Two

Expansive concrete steps, three that took the space of a more efficient six. At the time, maybe the city had higher hopes for the lowest rent district this block had become. 

Mac pulled himself up the enormous steps with one weathered hand on the equally weathered iron rail.  

The bare bulb flickered above the narrow entrance to the building. The door might have more room if the architect had not the flair when designing the four story monstrosities that lined the street. 

“Damned wiring.” He tilted to examine the flickering from above.  

His shoulder bumped the ornate door frame that claimed most of the landing at the top of the stairs. He released the rail dug into the outside pocket of his khaki trench coat.  

“Damned keys.” He fumbled with the loop of keys before choosing one marked with a dark ‘x’ on both sides.

Several seconds of grumbled cursing accompanied fumbling with the large brass key and excessive brass keyhole. 

Agitation jostled and rattled the brass handle. “Damned door.” Mac shouldered the heavy, warped door.  

Two grown men could enter arm-in-arm through that doorway, when the hinges allowed it to swing free. Today though it took all Mac’s strength to manage to squeeze his average sized torso through the narrow gap. Expelling the last from his impeding lungs Mac stumbled into the lobby.  

With equal force, Mac slammed the door, the hinges much more agreeable to close. The narrow windows flanking the heavy door rattled in violent protest at the sudden slamming.  

“Damned door. Keep quiet.” Mac shook his fist.  

The light outside flickered another second before going completely out.  

“Damned light.”  

Cycling through the ring of keys again, Mac crossed the creaking lobby floor, wary of loose boards and soft spots that  in a step could swallow a man straight through to the subflooring.  

Mac rounded the ornate counter to the wall of post boxes.  Fighting with yet another key in the small lock Mac finally creaked free the tiny door. He reached a hand inside and sighed as he shook free of the cobwebs that had taken residence where some correspondence should be.  

Mac trudged a circuit around the lobby again, resisting the urge to ring the small desk bell that rested rusting on the edge of the counter.

“Mr. Grabes.” The screech of the woman’s voice halted Mac in his tracks.

Mac turned to meet the gaze of a beauty past her prime. Age and modesty were no match for Ms. Canay, who insisted on roaming the halls in a silk ruffed dressing robe as threadbare and world-worn as the woman on whose shoulders it slumped. 

“A little late to be out like that isn’t it, Ms. Canay.” Mac tipped his hat and stepped to move along to the elevator doors, but Canay held true to her skill as a former dancer.

The woman dwelt on the second floor of the building, renting the lower spaces to accommodate her dance studio. Mac never minded the steady stream of dames and dolls that traipsed the lobby when classes were in session, but with Ms. Canay’s name on a bigger piece of the real estate, she behaved as if she was more landlord than tennant.  

“How can I help you, at this hour, Ms. Canay?” Mac shifted his grey fedora as he rubbed his forehead.  

“You can start by not slammin’ doors at this hour, Mr. Grabes.” Canay clutched her flimsy robe closed over her ample bosoms.

Mac wondered of a time when Miss Canay might have been as much a looker as she took herself to be. 

He had to squint.

“My apologies, Ms. Canay. You know how that door acts up.” Every tenant in the building knew the attitude of that main door. Which meant the door slamming wasn’t the woman’s reason for approaching him.  

“It has a tendency to get stuck, Mr. Grabes, but it isn’t a vault.” Canay turned to keep Mac from looking at her plunging neckline.  

“I’ll be sure to take more care next time.” Mac adjusted his hat before daring another step for the elevator. “Now, it is late, Ms. Canay and I have work in the morning.”

“There is something else.”  

Mac paused mid stride and dropped his shoulders at the woman’s words.

“Something for you was mistakenly left in my box today.”  Canay’s words were drippy with nuance.

Mac rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry for the mistake. And, yes, I promise you, Ms. Canay, anything of mine in your box is most certainly by mistake.” 

Unperturbed, Ms. Canay sidled alongside Mac. A flourish drew from her cleavage a thick letter with airmail trim. Mac shuddered internally as she flipped the letter between her fingers and extended her arm in a dramatic arc.  

“Thanks.” Mac gripped the edge of the warm paper with ginger fingers. “I’m going to take care of this alone now, Ms. Canay.”

Canay’s lips and eyes flirted with Mac a moment before turning away. Her cascade of straight, too red hair swayed past her hips as she sashayed away.  

Mac relieved himself of a shudder of revulsion. He turned the envelope in his hand as he made way to the elevator doors. Tucking the letter into the inside pocket of his coat, he again drew out the loop of keys. 

The metal cried as Mac separated the gate caging the elevator. Stepping back to reach for the call button Mac readied his other hand on the inner doors. He held the call with his thumb and listened for a sound like a train dragging to a halt in the shaft beyond the doors. He had learned the song of the approaching clang of metal and wood.  

As the din rumbled past the floor the elevator reached midway down the wall. Mac shoved the doors open forcing the safety brakes to engage and drag the elevator to a stop.  

Mac held the doors ajar with his leg on one side and back to the other as he fumbled to close the outer cage. As the inner doors slammed back on one another Mac stumbled into the carriage of the elevator.  

The car lurched another foot before shuddering again. Mac pressed the button for his floor, the number on the metal disc long ago worn smooth.  

Watching the indicator was equally useless. The hand on the dial hung at a broken angle. But, Mac always watched anyway, as if he could sense the floor coming by staring at the unchanging flicker of the illuminated arc of numbers. He whistled, and rocked on his heels, hands behind at his back, as he rose into the upper levels of the building.  

Then, as if by instinct, he lunged. 

Escaping the elevator always exhilarated Mac after a hard day on the job. The doors separated and his hat pressed the outer cage.  

He pulled the cage closed once his feet were safe on his floor. He punched and curled his hat back into shape and returned it to his head. The walk to his apartment was a mosaic of stained carpet, water bulged ceilings, peeled paint and tarnished door numbers.  

He dug the keys from his pocket and flipped them around the ring again to one wrapped in black tape.  

“Honey I’m home.” Mac called into the darkness of the apartment.

He received only silence, not even a rumble from the streets below at this hour. The loop of keys that opened every door in Mac’s life broke the stillness as they clattered against the surface of the scarred wood table at the entry of his humble dwelling.  

Mac sighed, he wasn’t expecting a welcome. Work consumed the time required to maintain a steady relationship. Even friendships were a chore, few made mind of the hours Mac kept.  

Mac flicked on a light. For all the pomp and glamour of the main entrance, lobby and hallways, the designer had gotten bored by the time they created the actual spaces people lived in. Minimalist was understated.

He emptied the meager contents of his pockets into the glass dish his aunt had given him when he moved into his first place. The fool thing had survived moves, drunken escapades, and at least one break in; always greeting Mac at the door. He added a handful of coins to the change scattered in the glass, and pushed aside a stray button that had been there as long as the dish. He never could figure out what it meant to close. 

He drew out the letter Ms. Canay had given him and tossed it on the table without a second look.

Pockets cleared, Mac still felt heavy as he shrugged his trusty trench coat from weary shoulders. He cast the garment over the back of a slumping couch that had seen better days. The structure was still good, so stains and all, it stayed. 

Mac added his concrete gray fedora to the piled coat and dropped beside both, creaking the springs of the couch under his weight.

Everyone has their own idea of comfort. A dark, quiet room with a place to rest his weary rear was plenty for Mac. Plush was for the wealthy, lazy, and weak.

"Maow" Mac cracked the lids of his pale eyes to glance in the direction of the small plaintive sound.

"What happened to meeting the master of the house at the door?" Mac addressed the scrawny grey cat at his feet.

"Maow." A low grumble emanated from the small creature as it passed it’s pale torso along Mac's shins.

Mac lolled his head against the back of the couch. “Yeah, yeah, love, love.” 

He pushed his fists into the mushy cushions of the couch to escape the pit of the seat. “I know this ploy by now, don't think I don’t.”

Mac stood and glowered at the narrow bodied, moon eyed feline staring at him. The cat purred a moment more before another plaintive, “Maow” interrupted the rhythm of the rumble.

Mac nodded, “Right, right.” 

He stalked to the back of the apartment into the galley kitchen.  

The top cabinet whined on its hinges. Mac eyed the many cans, for human consumption and feline alike, settling on one from the lowest shelf, Mac gathered a small pull-tab tin. 

Mac nearly stumbled over the insistent feline at his ankles. Instead his elbow bumped the pile of dishes heaped in the sink beneath the cabinet. Clanging ceramic, pots, and glass, disturbed the cat only enough to cause it to circuit the little dinette in the nook. The purring grew insistent upon her return.

“See, now this affection has nothing to do with me. You would clamor all over anyone who offered you room and board.”  Mac popped the top of the can.

Mac pulled back the thin metal of the lid and set the open tin on the floor.

“Maow.” The cat dropped her haunches and proceeded to lick at her leg and twitch her tail.

“I forget what a classy dame you are.” Mac straightened, turned and from the same open cabinet retrieved a small bowl.  

He blew the dust out.

“See that I even got a clean one for you. Your dinner, my darling.” Mac flipped the can over, and with a gooey sucking sound followed by a soggy plop, wet cat food occupied the dish.

“Maow” She called out, figure eight-ing Mac’s ankles.  

Mac placed the meal at his feet. 

Satisfied with this much more elegant presentation the cat approached, sniffed, sat, sniffed again, and nibbled in contentment, a steady purr in accompaniment.  

Mac took in the state of the kitchen. Moldy dishes heaped in a dripping sink, counters coated in a yellowish haze, the subtle scent of decay permeating over the smell of old wood and cheap laminate.  

“A real woman wouldn’t be caught dead around here.” Mac ruffed his hair.  

Mac stepped around the dining feline. “Then again. A human dame would be twice the trouble and ten times the dialogue. I’d prefer a toxic kitchen than too much chatter.”

Mac turned to the cabinets before returning to the couch.  In one hand, a half full bottle of Jim Beam, the other an empty glass. “Gods bless the end of prohibition.”