by Thomas L. Traband III
It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed. All in all, it seemed to be a very suspense novel kind of night, thought Nick. He pulled his regulation P.I. trenchcoat a little tighter and his battered Fedora a little lower. He walked over under a blue and white striped canvas awning which belonged to a French cafe. Streams ran from its edges. Nick squinted out through this watery curtain.
A black sedan raced past Nick’s observation point and splashed the cast iron tables and chairs which adorned the patio. He noted it, then reached inside his coat for his sterling silver cigarette case. He removed one Turkish cigarette and returned the case to his pocket. He fumbled through his other pockets looking for his lighter. Coming up empty, he threw the cigarette to the ground. Nick continued to watch the streets. Time passed.
The man for whom Nick waited had completely forgotten his appointment. Not particularly surprising, considering the other things on his mind. The headache concerned him greatly. The accompanying broken skull worked its way into his thoughts. The two men who caused his physical distress made an appearance inside his head, figuratively speaking this time. He thought of their boss, who he had swindled. He thought of the money he would not get to spend. He thought of a beach in the Virgin Islands. He thought of nothing.
Nick watched the rain fall. He waited. He checked his watch. 3:00 A.M. His meeting had been scheduled for midnight. Nick decided the man probably would not show and proceeded to the nearest convenience store for some coffee and a new lighter. He determined to check out the black sedan later in the morning.
In his office, Nick poured over the state automobile registration records. He sat at an alarmingly expensive mahogany desk in a dangerously expensive high-backed executive chair. Three walls were panelled; the fourth covered by a world map mural. A large box rested atop the desk which could have been a television if it were not a computer monitor. Since it was a computer monitor, it was hooked up to a very powerful computer which was tied in to the state automobile registration records.
One particular record absorbed Nick’s attention. It recorded, in TV terms, a black, late-model sedan. Not so coincidentally, it was the same black, late-model sedan that Nick observed early that morning. The registration suggested no connection to his missing client. However, because the needle could not be seen, did not necessarily mean it was not in the haystack, he realized.
One could call Nick Reuter's office tasteful. One could call Nick Reuter's office spacious. One could call Nick Reuter's office fully-equipped. One could even call Nick Reuter's office twenty-four hours a day because Nick Reuter lived in his office.
A not particularly noticeable door opened behind Nick's desk and led to his apartment.
Nick printed the record he had been studying, took it from the laser printer and retired to his bedroom to study it further. He sprawled on his expanse of mattress and re-read the automobile registration.
The car belonged to an alleged Charles Rollins. He did not know if this was an alias, but the address given happened to be the same as that of his favorite bar. Obviously, a fradulent registration. That brought him back to square one.
He reviewed the facts. His client, Nathan Bosworth, hired him to investigate an employee who Bosworth felt was embezzling funds from his law firm. Bosworth arranged a midnight meeting in a seedy section of town. Bosworth did not show. Nick observed one vehicle pass by, and that turned out to belong to someone who sought to conceal his identity. All in all, not much to go on.
Nick considered smoking a cigarette, then remembered he left his new lighter in the pocket of his trenchcoat, which lay on the office floor. If he kept this up, he might accidentally stop smoking. He thought of it as a dirty habit, anyway. He would probably be better without it.
Nick mulled over the implications as he fell asleep.
Someone shone a flashlight into his eyes. His body hurt with bruises and cuts. He tried to focus on his assailant with the light and at the same time, tried to ward off that annoying beam. Nick attempted to roll into a fighting position, but succeeded only in rolling off his bed and onto the floor.
He looked at his watch. 9:07. The “flashlight beam” turned out to be a ray of sunlight, which streamed through his window.
Okay, morning had arrived a bit soon for Nick Reuter. Not much to do about it but to get a cup of coffee, he thought. He got up and stumbled back through his office into the waiting room.
Gina, his secretary, had a fresh pot of coffee waiting. Nick was much relieved.
“Good morning, Mr. Reuter,” she said through her chewing gum. “Did we have a rough night?”
“Judge Crater failed to show. Get me all the information you can on this guy, you know, associations both social and professional, relatives, et cetera. Give me a complete background. I think he was rubbed out, but I don't know by whom. Set the computer to monitor for any bodies turning up and to cross-index with Crater's physical.”
Nick drained his cup.
“Is that all?” Gina asked.
“Yeah. For now. Update me when you're through. I'll be at 25th Hour getting some breakfast.”
“No drinking…”
“I'll consider it.”
Nick filled his cup, emptied it and looked around as if trying to remember something.
“What is it, Mr Reuter?”
“I can't seem to remember what I did with my coat and hat.”
“They're in the closet. I picked them up when I came in this morning.”
“Thanks.”
“Don't mention it, Boss.”
Nick dimly remembered dropping his hat and coat on the floor of his office. He wondered what Gina had been doing in there. He wondered why she didn't bring her tight little aerobic body into his bedroom, long blond hair and all. He wondered if she had.
“Okay, check you later.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Reuter.”
He headed for the elevator and mentally criticized himself for entertaining such unprofessional thoughts about Gina. He knew better than to confuse his secretaries with concubines. The filing would never get done.
A customer easily lost track of time in the 25th Hour, which precipitated the name. Time seemed to pass much more slowly inside. One went in at 9:00, came out two hours later, but their watch read 9:15.
Nick knew how it worked. He and Lou Weatherby, 25th Hour’s owner, went ‘way back’. While Nick studied liberal arts, Lou majored in Physics.