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|Brisco Waters, Private Eye (Part 1) (standard:mystery, 0 words) [1/5] show all parts|
|Author: Red Storm||Updated: Jul 31 2001||Views/Reads: 1480/819||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Meet Brisco Waters, private eye. The time and place is 1930's Chicago, where underworld kings are pushing their criminal havoc onto innocent citizens. Now this bum-turned-P.I. is up against the very people who want him dead!|
Chicago, 1934 It started off just like any other Thursday morning in the middle of December. The snow was lying motionless across the dirty sidewalks, giving the false illusion that the city was actually semi-clean. The cloudy sky was threatening of another snowstorm like the one that just passed through last week, and most respectable citizens were home on this bleak morning with their families, anticipating the upcoming Christmas holidays. I, on the other hand, had no family, no cheery place to call home, and nothing better to do on this messed-up day but to sit in my office and pray for a client. Things were quiet, and that was actually a good thing. The neighborhood where my office was located was just that--a hood. It was a shabby part of the city, accented mostly by crime and violence. But it was cheap, and I couldn’t afford a high-rent luxury office downtown. My name is Brisco Waters, but most people just call me Waters. The people who don’t know me that well just call me Waters, that is. The small handful of people who do know me better than most call me more profane things. A loan shark named “Big” Al, for instance. This mobster loaned me $7,500 to throw a ramshackle office together and call it a home at the same time. Yes, I live in my office. It’s not so bad, once you get used to sleeping on the floor and showering only a couple of times a week. My only roommates are the huge rats who often like to keep me awake at night with their high-pitched noises. Ah, the life of a private investigator. It wasn’t much, but it was about to be less if I couldn’t find the money to pay off Big Al. Already he had proven this point by sending two thugs to my place to rough me up pretty good. The message was that I had another two weeks to pay in full or else it was curtains and ice for this private dick. So that was the gist of the past, and there I was sitting at my desk praying for a client. I buttoned my white shirt almost to the collar and tucked the tail into my wrinkled trousers, trying to look more professional. The only family I had to celebrate Christmas with was a half-empty bottle of good Kentucky bourbon, but that was enough for me. No whining, bitching or complaining, no asking for more money or running off with other men. I could trust the bottle to love me, and God knows I loved it. It was the perfect relationship. Having downed a few shots already that morning, I decided to drop the bourbon back in the top drawer of my large oak desk and play with my weapon collection. This was the one thing I had to be proud of, because it wasn’t every day that you saw so many great firearms all in one place. They had been passed on to me by my former partner, who had been killed in a shootout with a mobster no less. A pair of M&P Victory model .38 Specials with 5” barrel modifications, mint condition, were my pride and joy. I kept them in a lock box under my desk, but took them out now and then to clean and admire them. On the wall behind my desk I kept a standard 12-gauge shotgun, and my trusty military knife that I was given when I served in the army for a brief stint lay in the drawer next to my bourbon. It was the small part of my life that I actually enjoyed, and that was sad. My life to that point had been a waste, a bum from the slums of Chicago trying to make a living as a private investigator because I knew how to lie, cheat, steal, and spy. A bum trying to make a legitimate living as a crook. Another shot of bourbon put the exclamation mark on that realization. Then my life changed forever. A woman, around twenty-six years old, walked through the glass door and entered my office and my life. She was tall, slim, and curvaceous, I noticed, and her auburn hair curled away from her shoulders beautifully. She moved elegantly through my pig sty of an office, examining the cracks in the walls and floor. She wore a heavy fur coat, under which was a red silk dress. This woman was wealthy, and it didn’t take a world famous detective to figure that out. “Mr. Waters?” She asked, having obviously read the inscription on the cracked glass pane in my office door. “I’m Waters.” I replied, a little more hesitantly than I had intended. She caught the glitch with a slight smile. Click here to read the rest of this story (43 more lines)
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