The Ink-Stained Trail

I bolted town after that last case. Too many people looking to rub me out. Like it was my fault Johnny Two-Left-Shoes was shipping walnut hooch in crates marked "cod" over Port Authority's objections. Not that they objected to his shipping it. They objected to not getting a bribe. I tried working for the government, but they said I wasn't crooked enough. Maybe while I'm gone they'll all remember they hate each other and my problems will take care of themselves.

Yeah, and tomorrow a beautiful, rich widow will ask me to stay with her at her country mansion. That has happened, but she was a very recent widow looking for a patsy to take the fall.

So I moved my business further inland. Still settling in. It's different. Back home, all the buildings shield out the sun. You could forget it was there after awhile. Here the sun beats down all the time. Couldn't ignore it if you tried, though the wind makes a game effort to grab your attention. That's another thing the old turf blocked out. The wind goes all the time out here, a constant companion that won't let me light my cigarettes. I'm thinking of naming it Nancy, after my last girl. It's for the best she couldn't deal with my relationship with Sweet Lady Tobacco. She looks her best in the glow of a street light, and there aren't many of those out here.

At least people around here aren't like that. They want you to smoke, and just let the burning ash fall anywhere, that's fine, sonny. I suspect I'm in a town of pyromaniacs. The good news is I haven't had to buy cigs in weeks, not since word got around amongst the locals I do enjoy a smoke.

Not that I'm a popular guy. I'm still a newcomer, an outsider, and a busybody for hire, at that. Harder to do the work here, where there's no cover and you can see for miles. I'm sure some folks enjoy the view, but I miss the alleys and the steam coming up from the tunnels to watch from. You want shadows around here, you have to wait until night. Takes longer to get here than it did back home too. Always thought the towers and smokestacks pulled the sun down faster, and knowing that city, probably gave it a few swift kicks once it was down. No wonder you didn't see it much. Only a fool would linger around a place like that. Or someone who didn't know better.

It rained here yesterday. Not unusual; it's rained a lot since I arrived. Maybe I brought it with me, packed in the back of my car with my coat, camera, and whiskey. Most of the rain here is hard, fat rain, like being pelted with dead bees. Distracting, irritating. Yesterday was just a mist, moving under ladies' umbrellas and the brim of my hat because the wind carried it sideways. That felt normal. Mist was about all that could make its way to the ground in the City. Only stuff small enough to escape all those accusing spires and clutching ledges.

Not everything is different here. The Raccoons are around, and up to no good, stealing food intended for the less fortunate. They could just use the market like everyone else. Organized and cocky as always, hitting multiples locations at once, leaving just enough crumbs the cops know it was a raccoon, but not which raccoon. They're all guilty, and none of them are. Well, I have a little experience with them, and the wallet's getting light enough to float away. Maybe I'll look into it. . .