Elements of Crime

[sgt_Angua]

Elements of Crime

The rain comes down like it has a personal grudge against every street, roof, and living creature in Mendeleev. The glow of the street lamps, which shouldn’t be on for another two hours or so, can barely cut through the storm.

Some rosy-cheeked fool might say that the rain will wash away the filth and make the streets clean but that’s a blatant lie. Nothing can clean up this town. The best the rain can do is wash the trash off the streets and into the gutters until it clogs the drain and water and dirt spill out of the gutter and flood the street, which is exactly what’s happening outside my office window. No, the filth in this town is too big to fit though the drains; only the little guys end up in the sewers.

The name’s Nick Neon and I am drunk off my ass.

I’m a private investigator and just got paid for my last couple cases with no new ones to work on and I’m not going to get any more paranoid saps knocking on my door when there’s a storm like this. I can just sit back and watch the rain run down the window and hide the rest of this miserable city from view and drink.

The moment is so Goddamn beautiful I could weep, but that might be the whisky talking.

Just then I hear a knock on my door, as if the universe had noticed that I was enjoying myself for once and intended to fix that.

I sigh, put away the bottle, and compose myself for human interaction. I reach the door before I’ve decided whether to listen to this sucker’s problems or tell them that I’m not open for business. I open the door and see a woman, her back hunched against the rain, her hand at her throat, holding closed the collar of her raincoat. From the way she’s shaking, it didn’t do the job.

“Mr. Neon?” the woman says in a light soprano that shakes slightly from the chill.

“Come in. Hang your coat up.”

“Thank you.” There’s a note of relief in her voice as she steps quickly inside. When she hangs it up I can tell that the coat wasn’t able to fully protect her from the storm outside. The hem of her skirt is soaked, likely from the rain bouncing off the pavement up under her coat. Everything she’s wearing is a little wet; just enough to hug her figure in a way that I’m not going to complain about. She’s got a great pair.

I sit down behind my desk and gesture for her to take the seat opposite, and she does, brushing a few sodden strands of hair that her hood couldn’t protect out of her eyes.

“Cigarette?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you,” she says, her voice shaking less than it did before. I hand her a cigarette and light it for her. The brief flame illuminates her face in a breathtaking way. I’m suddenly struck by how exceptionally beautiful the woman is, made all the lovelier because she isn’t trying to sell it. The rain would have ruined or washed away any make up, but there’s no smear of color to indicate she was wearing any before. I could stare at her face for hours, framed by her soaked locks of hair that drape lightly across her shoulders. The rain has thwarted her intention to dress modestly, and the clingy fabric reveals she has a figure to die for. You don’t see that sort of honest beauty in this city, or much of any kind of honesty. She’s too good for a town like this.

If it wasn’t for the ring on her left hand I would tell her to get a train ticket and go find a city that wouldn’t chew her up and spit her out.

Who am I kidding? There isn’t a city within a thousand miles that wouldn’t happily devour this doll. Maybe she could find one that would at least recognize what they were destroying.

Did I mention I was drunk?

I mentally erase my thoughts from the last few seconds—except the image of the flame from the lighter illuminating her face as she leaned forward slightly to light the cigarette, that one I plan to keep for a long time—light myself a cigarette and ask “What brings you here Mrs.?” I trail off slightly, inviting her to give her name.

“Everett. Maggie Green Everett. And I’m a little concerned about my husband, Selen. He’s been working late a lot recently, and there are times when he seems to be happy about work and times when he seems to be worried, but he never tells me much about what’s happening when I ask… I’m worried he might have gotten involved in something… unsavory.”

“What’s his job?”

“He works at the window replacement shop on sixteenth and fourth.”

“Have you considered other explanations for his behavior?”

“I don’t think he’s cheating. He’s really not the type. I’m afraid he might be in over his head and I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

If the man is cheating on you then he’s too stupid to survive long in this city.

“Well, for this sort of thing I tend to charge two dollars an hour.” I don’t, and this may be the whisky talking but I don’t have it in my heart to charge her more. “First five hours upfront, so ten dollars.”

Maggie Everett—no her maiden name suits her much better. Maggie Green hands over two slightly damp five-dollar bills.

“He really is a good man, I’m just worried about him,” Maggie says.

“Of course.”

He doesn’t deserve you by a mile. You should leave him in the dust and go far away.

And maybe you can take me with you—no. That was just the whisky talking. I know I can’t get attached to a client, and I won’t. I work and live alone. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the way it’s always going to be. I don’t give and I don’t take. No debts and none to collect. Everything works out better that way.

“Come back in a week and I’ll tell you what I’ve found and you can decide if you want me to keep looking. Oh, and I’ll need your home address.”

“Number twelve Terra Metallum road.”

I write it down.

“Thank you Mr. Neon,” Maggie says, standing up and getting her coat.

“My pleasure.” I take one last look at her figure before she covers it up.

“Goodbye,” she says before heading back out into the storm.

A new case. I haven’t even started and I’m already starting to think that Selen Everett is the biggest idiot I have ever had to investigate.

I take out the bottle of whisky and take a drink.

[Varthonai]

Oh my God. This is more noir than a black cat eating extra-dark chocolate ice cream at midnight during a total lunar eclipse inside of a black hole. It's like Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade weren't hard boiled enough so they were both submerged in a Yellowstone hot spring and left there for half an hour. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE MY NOIRMETER EXPLODED OH NO

EDIT: In case it wasn't clear, I like it

DOUBLE EDIT: GADZOOKS, IT HAS AN ADDED LAYER OF AWESOME I COMPLETELY MISSED

[Aval]

God. Damn that's noir.

[Jedi-L]

Thank you for posting this, I'm looking forward to more.

[Killing_Time]

I love the entire paragraph just dedicated to describe Maggie, some women absolutely refuse to describe the female body in a sexual way, let alone from the point of view of a man.

I really like this, I'll be looking forward to more.

[Shinoi]

This has a dangerous amount of awesome. I demand moar noir.

[Paperback Writer]

This little story somehow got to me - like I could relate to what's happenin'... The girl, the vague case and oh my God... The rain... How I fuckin' loved every word of it.

Christ, I need anotha' drink...

[Tyemdi]

If this were a movie, I'd see it.

Seriously, this is impressive noir work. Looking forward to more, Sarge.

[BanHammor]

I love it.
@Kenneth: If a movie was made from it, it would include more scenery porn than Space Odyssey.

Also, on a second thought, I live near Mendeleev town. It never displays film noir. May expect suburban melancholy, though.

[sgt_Angua]

[Author's note: I've had major writer's block lately so there's supposed to be a few bits that come between the last part and this one, but they're not really necessary for this scene so I'm just posting this one and will get the others written up when I can. I'm likely to do some serious editing to this scene at some point, again because of the writer's block. Just so you know this is the next night.]

Night falls on Mendeleev like a drunk man on a whore’s bed, and the bright streetlights can’t hide the fact you could end up worse off in the end.

As I walk into The Mole I see Oxley sitting at a table with some blond floozy who doesn’t seem too happy about him talking over his shoulder to Cardone at the next table. I’ve never spoken to either of them and I don’t have any desire to change that, but I’ve found it pays to pick up names and details.

I sit down at the bar and catch Walter Tungsten’s eye and order a whiskey sour.

“Your boss around?” I ask when he brings me the drink.

“I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Herbert is the only person in this rotten town I would consider calling a friend. We understand each other because we’re the same sort of guy. He’s also one of the few who, like me, have learned how to read people. If you can get an idea of where someone fits into this city you can know a lot about what they’re like.

“It’s been a while Nick,” Herbert says sitting down next to me with a manhattan. “Haven’t seen in what, four days? This town been treating you well?”

“Come on, Herbert, you don’t look nearly drunk enough to ask a question like that, and I know I’m not anywhere drunk enough to hear it.”

“Well, let’s fix that then.”

We tap our glasses together and drink.

“You uh… you talk to Helen recently?” Herbert asks after a moment, his relatively sunny disposition fading slightly.

“No,” I say simply. “But I’ve heard that she’s working for Lillith if that’s what you’re going to tell me.”

“Ah. Well, I just thought you might want to know.”

“How Helen chooses to waste her life is no concern of mine.”

“Yeah, but if she’s fallen on hard times—“

“Helen doesn’t fall on hard times. Things don’t happen to her, she’s the one who happens. If she’s working for Lillith it’s because she wants to be and it wouldn’t be any of my concern if she didn’t.” There’s a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence before I add, “Look, I appreciate you giving me a heads up on things, but Helen isn’t my concern anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.”

Herbert shrugs with a sort of ‘fair enough’ look on his face.

“How’re things around here?” I ask.

“Same as always mostly. Been teaching Walter a bit more about running the place.”
Herbert had mentioned a while ago that Walter was interested in taking over The Mole at some point and he approved, but it seems a little odd for him to bring it up now.

“You’re not thinking of retiring already are you?”

“No, not for a while, but I might as well start teaching him.”

I find it hard to imagine this place without Herbert. I didn’t start coming here until some time after Avogadro sold the place to Herbert, although there’s still a picture of him behind the bar, apparently taken the day the bar opened with a little label reading ‘June 2nd, 1923.’

I take a casual look around but no one seems to be interested in us.

“Know anything about a guy named Selen Everett? He works at the window place on sixteenth and fourth,” I say in a tone of voice that won’t carry in the noisy bar.

“No one’s been talking about much of anything except how Fluorine’s boys have been shaking things up.”

I shake my head. “If you ask me that promotion to chief of police went to his head. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, trying to take down the organized crime in this city. All he’s doing is rattling the dons and making them more dangerous and less predictable.”

Herbert nodded. “I’m certainly steering clear of the Halogen street station until this settles down. You know Iodine’s still on the street?”

“He is? I thought for sure Fluorine would put him on desk duty at the very least, the man’s been unstable since his partner got whacked.”

“I think Fluorine’s trying to send a message, but I can't say what it is besides ‘I’ve got a screw loose.’”

“This town…” I mutter, taking a drink.

[RustyMagnum]

Under half a year, and i've already seen two stories which alone top every other i've ever read on DQ during my five years, together. Just as i was about to give up on seeing any noteworthy literature here, i can finally say: DQ, i am proud.
Inb4 ''How about Qui Daemon?'' because even though it's a damn fine story, it never had a personal effect on me. I don't feel like explaining why just because everyone else praises it to seventh heaven.

Two chapters isn't usually much to work on when it comes to judging stories, but this one makes an exception. So far it's been sheer pleasure reading this piece. Grammar is point on, quite obvious for a writer like you, and there's a great flow to the story which makes it easy and enjoyable to read through. The story goes right to the point, and doesn't stop to explain unrelated details, which would brake the story down for no reason.
I won't go praising the noir-ish feeling you've obviously been searhing for when writing the story, because i didn't find this as strongly noir-ish as others here. It is, however, obvious that you've had your share of the mentioned films and stories. Overall, the mood of the text is nice, and the smooth storytelling sucks the reader in immediatelly.

Keep this up and we'll have two diamond-hard texts for this year. Now that would be something very special.

[Aval]

This is so noir it's given me something straight talking and hardboiled in my pants. And it's not a detective.

[sgt_Angua]

(Took a while to figure out where I was going next, and I'm still working on figuring out the plot so updates may continue to be infrequent.)

The first two days of tailing Selen Everett are as slow and boring as a woodpecker trying to break through the Hoover Dam. The man doesn’t know how to watch his back, a recipe for disaster on these streets, which makes following him easy but dull, since there isn’t even the challenge of staying hidden. I spend two days on a bench a ways down from and across the street from ‘Sillic’s Window Shop’ and keep a sideways eye on the shop from behind some bushes, taking note of the people who walked in and out. Some of them I recognize, some I don’t. The most interesting discovery I make was that Oxley worked with Selen, which shows just how boring things are.

Much as I hate to doubt her, come the third day I have to wonder if Maggie was imagining things. That is, until Selen left work early, looking around like he's checking if he's being watched in a way he must think is subtle and effective.

Naturally I follow him, and a block from his destination a man wearing a gray coat joins Selen walking. I recognize him as someone who had stopped into the window shop for less than five minutes the previous day. From Selen’s lack of paranoia at his presence I guess he knows the man better than that.

They say almost nothing as they walk, to my slight disappointment, not even greeting each other by name. Given his track record, I’d have put even money on Selen being stupid enough to discuss whatever he was up to in the street, but the only hint of a conversation I get is when the man tells Selen off for peering over his shoulder in a laughable attempt to see if they are being followed.

Soon after, they come to a small apartment building on a street full of similarly pathetic residences, and rang the third bell from the bottom.

About five minutes after they walk in I go up to the door to check the name on the bell: S. Sullivan. I make a show of reading all of the names twice, frowning, going outside and staring at the address and walking away. If anyone was watching they would have gotten the impression I was at the wrong address. I find another good concealed spot from which to watch the door and wait.

It's three hours before Selen and the other man emerge from the building, parting ways almost instantly with only a nod farewell. I follow Selen but he doesn’t do anything more interesting than his pathetic attempts to see if he is being followed. I stay on his tail until he gets home, where Maggie is waiting for him, probably with dinner ready.

Lucky bastard.


(Edit: just noticed I messed up a lot of tenses, so I did a rather large edit.)

[Rockonman]

Looks good.

[Varthonai]

I just realized (i.e. it was just pointed out to me) that I forgot to give the official VLAD rating to this. I present thusly:

4/5 for Sections 1 and 2. My review is in my reaction in my first post in this thread.

3.8/5 for Section 3, some of Nick's inner monologue is starting to lose the perfect mix of subtlety and ridiculous noir overload that made him so much fun in the first two parts, but it is still definitely in the cream of the DQ fiction crop.