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Gumshoe and I strolled back across the parking lot, chatting amiably about our most recent closed case before moving to various tasty morsels of gossip. The assignment had been quite a success story. They don't all work out like that, inevitably, but this one featured no bloodshed, a conclusion apparently entirely to the satisfaction of the client, and we didn't even have to press hard to get the balance of our fee. We must have looked quite the odd couple in the semi-darkness. Gumshoe is short for a man although, while still a head taller than me, he remains very blocky and powerful about the shoulders. He shaves his head to conceal incipient baldness but, since he is very much the traditional Private Eye when it comes to sartorial appearance, he compensates by almost always wearing a hat and a long raincoat with the collar turned up. As we walked, our chat turned to the question of what our next assignment would be. Despite what we had told Bridges, neither of us had anything particularly pressing on our books at the moment. This wasn't an immediate problem, of course; the balance of the fees would tide both of us over for a good few weeks - months, if I didn't squander it all on paying the less essential of my bills. My bank manager might even be reasonably cooperative, at least for a while. But, in our business, it is always to know where the next meal ticket is coming from. We reached Gumshoe's car - old, but well cared-for and beautifully polished - and I clambered into the back seat. This keeps me out of sight from the casual observer. Gumshoe slid his bulk behind the seating wheel and turned the key. The vast engine rumbled into life immediately. He slid the car into gear and drew away smoothly, careful to drive slowly so as not to attract the attentions of any overzealous traffic cops. "Where to, Gask?" he asked. I gave him an address in one of the seedier parts of town, a backstreet in an industrial area well away from the bright lights of the casinos. He grunted in acknowledgement and made a left at the exit of the parking lot. As Gumshoe drove, I opened the packet of cash we had collected and thumbed through the bills more closely. All present and correct, precisely the fee we had agreed. I separated the money into equal portions and stuffed my half in one of the many capacious pockets in the long overcoat I habitually wear. I put the rest back in the envelope and tapped Gumshoe on the shoulder with it. "Thanks," he said, taking the proffered dosh and concealing it in his own pocket, "It's a pleasure doing business with you." I snorted. The cliché was hardly worth a real laugh. A few minutes later, we drew to a halt at the kerb. The street lighting was so poor that it was very nearly dark, and there was absolutely nobody about. "Where are you going now?" I asked casually as I got out. "Oh," Gumshoe replied casually, "I'm just going home." So he was going to drive back to New York. I knew he hated planes, preferring to drive for days instead and stay in low-rent motels as necessary. He had an old family home, a rambling pile - mostly in a poor state of repair - in up-state New York. But that was not his destination. He meant his little rented apartment in the city. I could tell he was expecting to spend some time with Rosie, the owner of Chill's Irish Bar, with whom he had struck up what seemed to be a long-term relationship. "Enjoy your drive," I said wryly, "And keep in touch." He nodded in acknowledgement. I slammed the car door shut, turned up the collar, pulled my hat down further - to shade my eyes and disguise my ears - adjusted my sunglasses and strode off down the street.
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Part 2