This Noir Detective Definitely Skipped Dinner
Chicago will chew you up and spit you out. On nights like tonight, I can’t help but feel like a piece of spinach stuck in the city’s teeth. And now that I’ve run out of leads on my investigation, it’s become clear that the city ordered a spinach omelette—’cause there’s egg on my face. And let me tell you: It’s never over easy.
Knock, knock. My door swings open.
She rolls into my office like one of those rotating hot dogs at 7-11. You know the ones, plastic-y but intriguing. And just like those suspicious frankfurters, this dame might’ve been passed over as too dangerous during the day. But, in the wee hours, you can talk yourself into just about anything.
“Pardon me, but are you detective Sam Spoon?” Her voice is raspy, but sweet. Like a raspberry. And, from the looks of it, this raspberry is in a jam.
Instead of answering, I light two cigarettes. She accepts one. Our smoke wafts toward the ceiling, as if from a steaming pie on a windowsill—the kind that grabs you by the nostrils and tugs you floating through the air. But my job is to sniff out clues, not delicious apple cobblers… maybe with a latticed upper crust… wouldn’t hurt to add a dollop of vanilla ice cream–
“Detective? I have an urgent case, and I need your help.”
“Fine, I’ll bite.”
She offers a rye smile. Wry, I mean. “It’s my pearls, detective. They’re missing.”
“I take it they were strung on a necklace, not sitting inside of oysters? Maybe a dozen on the half-shell?”
She blinks. “…What?”
“Never mind.”
The woman purses her glossy lips. They glisten like a maple-glazed ham (a smoked ham with the rind still on, I’d say, garnished with rosemary and offset with a touch of dijon mustard to offer the perfect tang, mmm yeah that’d do it). She coughs politely.
“First, my husband perished under questionable circumstances. And now my precious pearls have vanished. They’re worth thousands. Hundreds of thousands.”
“Wowza. That’s enough dough to open a pizzeria.”
She smirks. “Chicago-style?”
“Depends how deep this dish goes.”
“As long as you get a slice, right?”
I shrug. “Ain’t pizza without cheddar, hon.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Some men are lactose intolerant.”
I pat my breast pocket. “Lactaid. Always prepared. So we could go right now. I know a place across the street that’s open 24 hours.” She shoots me a quizzical look. I sigh. “Metaphorically speaking.” She relaxes.
The lady leans over and pouts, and suddenly my knees are spaghetti and my words are alphabet soup. “Come now, Spoon, surely we could work something out? I’m down on my luck.”
I cross my arms. “What kind of sap do you think I am?”
“I’m sorry, detective, I–”
“No. I’m asking. What kind? Mrs. Buttersworth? Aunt Jemima? Log Cabin Original?”
“…Huh?”
“Would you pour me over some waffles? How ‘bout a nice stack of flapjacks?”
She frowns. “Is that some sort of come-on, Mr. Spoon?”
What a laugh. This broad thinks I’m sweet on her, even though she’s a widow who surely murdered her husband in cold blood. Probably sliced and diced him into a million pieces. Or minced. Maybe a julienne cut, actually. Then she probably sauteed him in a pan with a little vegetable oil over a high heat until he was crispy. Seasoned him with some salt and pepper, I’d reckon. Nothing too fancy. I keep these thoughts to myself.
Instead, I take a drag on my cigarette. “Hey now, if you don’t like the meal, send it back.”
Her eyes sparkle. “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
“No problem. I’m ordering delivery.”
She blinks. “I’m… not following–”
“Chinese, I think. Do you like crab rangoon, miss? Figuratively.”
“Sorry, detective, but… have you eaten today?”
There’s a pause.
“I’ve only had cigarettes and black coffee.”
“Would you like to grab a bite–”
I rise faster than bread in an oven. “Yes please can we please go right now oh my god.”
Justice is best served as soon as possible.