Published on December 16, 2014
MurderMostDeadly RickyWilks CHAPTER 1 I thought about getting up from my desk and going home, but I’d just poured another bourbon and I wasn’t one to waste good bourbon. Or even the swill I was drinking. Besides, my apartment was just as uncomfortable as my office. It was hot: a July night in the middle of October. The muggy night air hung heavy, like someone trying to smother me with a wet pillow. The ceiling fan did nothing to cut the heat but I left it on. I had high hopes. Lately, I had nothing but time and I made sure I had enough bourbon in me so I missed as much of it as possible. Years ago, my little detective agency was busy. A lot of long-legged dames had sat in the leather chair across from my desk, always looking for their husband’s murderers. They’d vainly flash a little thigh. I’d hear their sob story, offer them a handkerchief, and assure them we could help. And we did too. Gun-wielding killers would darken our door. Some would shakily hold their guns on us in the open and some would try to be cool and point them at us through their coat pockets. It didn’t matter; as long as we were being threatened, I knew we were doing a good job. After Elio died, that all went south - or maybe just I did. Business dwindled. Now nobody darkens my office door except my secretary, usually letting me know he’s going home or that he hasn’t been paid in months. I’m never sure which one it is. Now, five years later, I sit at my desk, listen to the fan, and watch water pool under my glass. I’m Jack Monterey, Private Detective. Or Jack, Public Drunk, depending on who you ask.