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31_days2006-01-10 04:31 pm
incandescens) wrote in 31_days2006-01-10 04:31 pm
[January 10th] [original noir] an excerpt
Title: an excerpt
Date/Theme: January 10th / Private investigations
Series: original, noir
Character/Pairing: a private detective and his visitor
Rating: G
Rain slapped against the pane like gravel hitting a windscreen. I shook my trenchcoat over the doormat. The doormat wasn't going to survive another week of these storms. It was moulting straw like an old dog, shedding it in all directions. The floor was a mess.
It was spring in Shanghai. The weather was going to kill me.
If someone else didn't manage the job first.
My secretary wasn't here yet. She'd left a note on her desk last night, pinned to the blotting paper with a nailfile, saying that she was having her hair done. I grinned at the thought. She didn't need it, but it'd let her catch up on the local gossip. She'd be sitting in the hairdressers with the newspaper open but not bothering to read it, talking her lungs out with all her friends while the paper drooped limply between her fingers, with the girl behind her snipping at her hair.
I figured I'd better remember to say something nice when she gets in. It was one of the things I'd learned early; a woman who's been to the hairdresser always looks good. Even if she doesn't.
Faint, barely audible against the rattle of the rain, I heard a whisper of sound from my office.
My hand slid into my jacket and I felt the reassuring weight of my gun as I stepped to one side of the door and kicked it open. The door swung back and slammed into the wall, the wavy glass in the half-window jumping in its frame.
Nobody tried shooting at me. That was promising. Then I recognised the smell of cigarettes, and I knew who my visitor was.
I stepped round the side of the door to look into the room. Gouen was sitting in my chair behind my desk, one knee folded over the other, trousers perfectly creased. The gaslamp from outside the window gleamed on his polished shoes. He'd got a book open and he was just finishing stubbing out a cigarette in my ashtray.
"I could have shot you," I said. "You ought to be more careful how you pay visits."
He didn't bother looking up from his book. "And you ought to be more careful with your doors." He spoke English like the local expatriates did, crisp and heavy on the consonants. I still didn't know where a mob lawyer had picked that up. "What if I'd had an associate standing behind it?"
"See, now," I said, shutting the door again, "that's the difference between us. I don't have associates who stand behind doors."
"You couldn't afford them," he said mildly, and he had a point there.
"So what's the reason for the visit?"
He held his cigarette in the air. Smoke curled up from the tip and rose into the dusty air. "Someone wants someone found. I'm here to discuss terms."
I raised an eyebrow. Lung Gouen wasn't a man who spent his time doing other people's errands like this. "Someone important."
"Yes. To both."
"Mm. Any names I'd know?"
"Pour me some of your whiskey," he said mildly, "and we'll talk."
"Names first," I said stubbornly. I wasn't going to get involved in anything till I knew a bit more.
Gouen sighed. "They call him the Son of the White Serpent. After his father."
I shrugged. "Means nothing to me."
Gouen twitched his own shoulders. He wore good cloth. His jacket fitted like it had been sewn for him personally. It probably had. "I knew it wouldn't. Whiskey?"
"Okay," I said, and I found the bottle and two glasses.
Date/Theme: January 10th / Private investigations
Series: original, noir
Character/Pairing: a private detective and his visitor
Rating: G
Rain slapped against the pane like gravel hitting a windscreen. I shook my trenchcoat over the doormat. The doormat wasn't going to survive another week of these storms. It was moulting straw like an old dog, shedding it in all directions. The floor was a mess.
It was spring in Shanghai. The weather was going to kill me.
If someone else didn't manage the job first.
My secretary wasn't here yet. She'd left a note on her desk last night, pinned to the blotting paper with a nailfile, saying that she was having her hair done. I grinned at the thought. She didn't need it, but it'd let her catch up on the local gossip. She'd be sitting in the hairdressers with the newspaper open but not bothering to read it, talking her lungs out with all her friends while the paper drooped limply between her fingers, with the girl behind her snipping at her hair.
I figured I'd better remember to say something nice when she gets in. It was one of the things I'd learned early; a woman who's been to the hairdresser always looks good. Even if she doesn't.
Faint, barely audible against the rattle of the rain, I heard a whisper of sound from my office.
My hand slid into my jacket and I felt the reassuring weight of my gun as I stepped to one side of the door and kicked it open. The door swung back and slammed into the wall, the wavy glass in the half-window jumping in its frame.
Nobody tried shooting at me. That was promising. Then I recognised the smell of cigarettes, and I knew who my visitor was.
I stepped round the side of the door to look into the room. Gouen was sitting in my chair behind my desk, one knee folded over the other, trousers perfectly creased. The gaslamp from outside the window gleamed on his polished shoes. He'd got a book open and he was just finishing stubbing out a cigarette in my ashtray.
"I could have shot you," I said. "You ought to be more careful how you pay visits."
He didn't bother looking up from his book. "And you ought to be more careful with your doors." He spoke English like the local expatriates did, crisp and heavy on the consonants. I still didn't know where a mob lawyer had picked that up. "What if I'd had an associate standing behind it?"
"See, now," I said, shutting the door again, "that's the difference between us. I don't have associates who stand behind doors."
"You couldn't afford them," he said mildly, and he had a point there.
"So what's the reason for the visit?"
He held his cigarette in the air. Smoke curled up from the tip and rose into the dusty air. "Someone wants someone found. I'm here to discuss terms."
I raised an eyebrow. Lung Gouen wasn't a man who spent his time doing other people's errands like this. "Someone important."
"Yes. To both."
"Mm. Any names I'd know?"
"Pour me some of your whiskey," he said mildly, "and we'll talk."
"Names first," I said stubbornly. I wasn't going to get involved in anything till I knew a bit more.
Gouen sighed. "They call him the Son of the White Serpent. After his father."
I shrugged. "Means nothing to me."
Gouen twitched his own shoulders. He wore good cloth. His jacket fitted like it had been sewn for him personally. It probably had. "I knew it wouldn't. Whiskey?"
"Okay," I said, and I found the bottle and two glasses.