![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Heh. Random bit of WiP.
I stumbled across this tonight while I was poking through my folder of unfinished scraps, and realized that I am never going to write any more of this (first of all, because I was totally winging it, and had no idea what was going to happen next; second, because the pseudo-Dashiel Hammett voice is actually really hard to pull off, and doesn't sound all that much like Peter's internal voice to me). This was written back in July.
Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.
She was a regular knockout, but I could tell she was the kind of girl who didn't know she was pretty. Long brown hair, big blue eyes. It was raining outside and she'd wrapped herself in a long coat that covered her right down to the ankles. I found myself wishing the coat was a little shorter. I wanted to see what her legs looked like.
She walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. Two fingers of Scotch, no water. A man's drink. Then she looked around like she was trying to find somebody, but her eyes stopped when she got to me, and she came over.
I thought about whether to get up and pull out a chair. Seemed like too much trouble.
"I hate to drink alone," she said, and nodded to the half-empty bottle in front of me. "May I join you?"
Personally I like drinking alone, but she looked like nice company, and I hadn't had company that nice in a while. "Sure," I said, and she took off the coat -- I was right; nice legs -- and pulled out the chair for herself and sat down.
"Are you Peter Burke, the detective?"
An alert went up in the back of my head. No coincidence she came over here, then. "I used to be a detective."
"I'd like to hire you."
"I said I used to be."
She shook her head. "I heard you're the best," she said, and wrapped her hands around her drink -- long fingers, no wedding ring. "I want to hire you to find the jewel thief, Neal Caffrey."
I stood up, fast enough to push back the table, jostling her drink. "Who sent you?"
"No one," she said, startled at my reaction. "I'm telling the truth. I want to hire you."
People were looking at us. I drew a couple of breaths and sat down again. "Caffrey's dead," I said.
"No he's not," the woman said.
I studied her. She didn't look like she was lying, which left a few possibilities. Most of them didn't mean a long life for me. Not that my life was worth a whole lot these days, but I was still too damn stubborn to let go of it without a fight. I slipped a hand down to the weight of the .38 special in the pocket of my coat.
"How do you know he's alive?"
"It's my job to find things out," she said. Mischief glimmered in her eyes. "Elizabeth Parker. I'm with the Times."
A reporter. A girl reporter, snooping around Caffrey's alleged death. Just what I needed.
"If your job is finding things out," I said, "then what do you need a detective for?"
"Touche," she said, smiling. "To be honest, I don't actually know anything. But I think you do."
... and that's all there is. *g*
Neal's not dead, obviously, but beyond that, I haven't a clue.
Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.
She was a regular knockout, but I could tell she was the kind of girl who didn't know she was pretty. Long brown hair, big blue eyes. It was raining outside and she'd wrapped herself in a long coat that covered her right down to the ankles. I found myself wishing the coat was a little shorter. I wanted to see what her legs looked like.
She walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. Two fingers of Scotch, no water. A man's drink. Then she looked around like she was trying to find somebody, but her eyes stopped when she got to me, and she came over.
I thought about whether to get up and pull out a chair. Seemed like too much trouble.
"I hate to drink alone," she said, and nodded to the half-empty bottle in front of me. "May I join you?"
Personally I like drinking alone, but she looked like nice company, and I hadn't had company that nice in a while. "Sure," I said, and she took off the coat -- I was right; nice legs -- and pulled out the chair for herself and sat down.
"Are you Peter Burke, the detective?"
An alert went up in the back of my head. No coincidence she came over here, then. "I used to be a detective."
"I'd like to hire you."
"I said I used to be."
She shook her head. "I heard you're the best," she said, and wrapped her hands around her drink -- long fingers, no wedding ring. "I want to hire you to find the jewel thief, Neal Caffrey."
I stood up, fast enough to push back the table, jostling her drink. "Who sent you?"
"No one," she said, startled at my reaction. "I'm telling the truth. I want to hire you."
People were looking at us. I drew a couple of breaths and sat down again. "Caffrey's dead," I said.
"No he's not," the woman said.
I studied her. She didn't look like she was lying, which left a few possibilities. Most of them didn't mean a long life for me. Not that my life was worth a whole lot these days, but I was still too damn stubborn to let go of it without a fight. I slipped a hand down to the weight of the .38 special in the pocket of my coat.
"How do you know he's alive?"
"It's my job to find things out," she said. Mischief glimmered in her eyes. "Elizabeth Parker. I'm with the Times."
A reporter. A girl reporter, snooping around Caffrey's alleged death. Just what I needed.
"If your job is finding things out," I said, "then what do you need a detective for?"
"Touche," she said, smiling. "To be honest, I don't actually know anything. But I think you do."
... and that's all there is. *g*
Neal's not dead, obviously, but beyond that, I haven't a clue.