Got a special treat for you. In order to get into a Fiction Writing class this semester at Amherst College, I've got to send in a short story. What you are about to read is an early build of that story. It's about 2/3 complete and it's got some revisions to go through, but take a gander and please tell me what you think. Criticism is not only appreciated but welcomed. My academic future rests in your hands.

Well, that settled it. I was going to be homeless. I had just run the numbers and there was no way I was going to be able to buy groceries, pay the rent on the hole in the wall I generously called an apartment, and keep the lights on at the Open Dore Agency. I may have been the only private investigator in the City, but clients weren’t exactly pouring through the door. I had just gotten the damn logo stenciled on the glass too. Hell, I had even taken out an ad in the paper. “Don’t let locked doors get in the way of your questions. Come see Raymond Dore at the Open Dore Agency!” In hindsight, I may have been just a little too heavy on the puns, but come on, that’s a good ad. There was only one way to handle this situation. I calmly put my hands in my lap and began to pound my head into the solid oak desk that I had somehow managed to get up four flights of stairs. That’s why I almost didn’t hear the sound of footsteps walking up the stairwell.

When I did, I froze and sent a quick word to whoever was up there, begging for some stolen jewelry that needed to be found or a cheating husband that was just waiting to be caught by yours truly. The sound didn’t stop at the second floor, which meant that it wasn’t Mr. Neally getting back from running errands. As the footsteps got closer, I rested one hand on grip of the sawed off shotgun I had bolted under my desk with the barrel facing the door. Don’t look at me like that, paranoia comes naturally in my line of work. I was thinking about whether or not I’d chosen the wrong line of work when the door swung upon and Cynthia entered the room as though she owned the place, briskly walking towards me.

Cynthia Brandt was the Assistant Governor of the City, overseeing the day-to-day problems while Governor Bixler dealt with what he apparently called “bigger picture problems.” Conveniently for him, those bigger picture problems don’t cover prosecuting criminals, overseeing the police force, and dealing with the City’s ancient infrastructure. Over the past few years, she’d done a pretty admirable job of cleaning up the place. She had that rare virtue of being a government official with the ability to look outside the bureaucracy for a solution. I had worked for her on more than one occasion, usually to track down evidence or witnesses in places police couldn’t go.

“You’ve really got to upgrade from that old peashooter” she proclaimed with a smirk.

“Peashooter? This thing could put three men flat on their backs”

“But could it stop me?”

I raised my hands in mock surrender as she sat down on the chair that sat opposite of my desk. While she may have done a pretty good job of cleaning up the city, she didn’t do so unopposed. When she first took the job, a lot of the City’s seedier elements didn’t take her too seriously, seeing her as a glorified secretary who happened to be very easy on the eyes. A nuisance at best and a victim at worse. That changed when she managed to nail a conviction onto a notorious slum lord, who decided to send a few of his thugs over to her home in response. Thanks to a tip from a certain private investigator, she got wind of it and the slum lord’s men walked in on an empty house. Which was then mysteriously set on fire after all the exits were mysteriously barricaded. The courts ruled it as an accident

“How have you been Doore?”

“Eh, not too shabby. I don’t think I’ll starve to death any time soon, so I’ve got that going for me.”

“Good to see that you still know how to keep things in perspective. I’m guessing business hasn’t been going so well.”

“As well as it’s ever been.”

“That bad huh?”

Ah, the dance of the client that knows she’s got me by my wallet. Normally, I’d have fun with this sort of thing, but my future homelessness had me feeling just a little bit down. So, I decided to be my usual diplomatic self and get down to business.

“You know the rules. Triple the fee if it’s illegal.”

“Illegal? What makes you say that?”

“I haven’t seen James in the paper lately and I doubt he’s decided to lie low.”

That got her attention. She stared at me hard, saying nothing, and I saw something in her eyes that made me want to reach for the shotgun. James was Cynthia’s brother who just so happened to run with a crowd on the wrong end of the law. He’d wound up in court more times than I could count, usually for burglary or assault. While almost everyone in the City gossiped that the only reason he was still out on the street was because of his sister, I knew it for a fact. Cynthia had hired me on more than one occasion to save her brother’s skin, usually by tampering with damning evidence or bribing witnesses.

After a brief silence she finally spoke through gritted teeth. “He’s missing. I want to find him. Nothing illegal in that is there?”

“No I suppose not. It could be dangerous though. Double my fee.”

“Fine, let’s go.”

I felt awful as we walked down the stairs. Cynthia was a good client and I’d even go so far as to call her a friend. It didn’t feel right to take advantage of her concern for James, but it was either that or sleep in my office. As we walked out into the street, I spied a sleek black limousine with a suited driver standing by the door. That would be our ride. When we got closer, I noticed Cynthia give an almost imperceptible nod to the driver, who seemed to relax a tiny bit at the signal. Along with the very conspicuous bulge in his suit jacket, that clued me in to his true job, keeping Cynthia safe. I could respect that. I could also respect that this guy had been in the Service, just as I had. When he opened the door for us, he recognized it on me too.

“Unit?”

“5^th Scout Regiment”

I’ll admit, I never got used to the reaction when I said that name, even when it was as subtle as the driver’s. His eyes widened a bit and he offered his hand to me. I shook it and joined Cynthia in the car. She told the driver to take us to James’s place and then eyed us with a raised eyebrow. We pretended not to notice.