Short Stories

The Client

As if his lungs weren't corrupted enough, he lifted another lit cigarette up to his paper-thin lips. Smoke warped out of his nostrils, carrying little crumbs of life out of him as they departed. The smell of tobacco was stitched into his $12,000 suit, a pretentious attire equivalent to about 2 years' worth of rent for my apartment next to a urine-smelling alleyway.

Once again, I was reminded of my hunger as I eyed his overfed Tibetan Mastiff barking at its empty bowl, a symbolic imagery of my hollow stomach throwing a tantrum. With all the other investigators frantically swarming around sniffing for more clients, I grew desperate enough to take a job across town that would cut two hours out of my ordinary five hour sleep schedule. Getting here on a discounted public transport ticket already took a good hour or so. I still haven't figured out if this was another one of the many choices I regret in my pathetic twenty two years out of the womb.

The man before me was as tense as a violin string, like a twelve-year-old confronting a phone on the verge of battery death. His eyes flashed up beneath his furrowed brows for a brief moment, momentarily revealing colours, not of chocolate swirls or golden maple syrup like how teen romances described it, but a cold slate-like colour. Like gunpowder, or maybe the occasional silver coins at the right lighting angle from the windows framed with drawn Persian curtains. It still wasn't too much of a human look if you asked me.

After a few taps at the ash tray and an awful lot more of smoke, his attention was finally turned toward me. Those cold slate irises met my average flat browns, the colour of everyday coffee stains. If I'd excuse the amount of cigarettes he had stuck between his staining teeth, maybe he would have been decent to look at. Even appealing, to say the least. Many women would kill for a man with a jawline you can sharpen knives on. I wouldn't, but it was nice to appreciate one of earth's finest wonders.

"I never expected to pay a Westside junkie."

Charming.

The words were tossed on the ground in front of me. He didn't even have the courtesy of trying to look sorry. I guess when you're so used to drowning in money, it made it acceptable for you to be a complete asshole. It took all the willpower I had to supress the urge of shoving those expensive Persian curtains down his throat, as if those ciggies weren't already enough to kill him.

When he observed that I didn't buckle, or wasn't planning to buckle, he pried deeper. "I never expected to pay a Westside junkie with a busted lip. You can at least try to afford a Band-Aid to cover that shit up."

"I didn't know a bleeding lip could be so insulting." I could not help asking. "But you do happen to have a Band-Aid, don't you?"

"Nice try." Looks like he didn't.

The house, despite the ribbon-like unravelling staircases and Persian carpets, was a tomb of smoke. His swollen dog was still barking, lancing a streak of pain down the side of my head as my eyes fought off the sleep. I was growing agitated at this cigarette stand. "Are we going to get down to business or are you going to smoke another pack of Pall Mall?"

It was a good guess, and I could see it on his face. A baby step for a non-smoker at least.

When he continued to glare at nothing in particular for the next minute or so, I've come to the conclusion that I could've gotten a Ham and Cheese pocket if I hadn't sacrificed it for that ticket this morning. I smell regret.

It was the moment I got up to leave that his glance snapped back up again. I wasn't interested in a tea party without tea.

"Where do you think you're going?" He sounded like he was imitating Hitler.

"Home. Where the heart is."

"You're leaving already?"

"I'm dropping your case. Wait, I don't even know what it is."

I bet my two hands he was going to ask me to tail mobsters in trench coats, or sniff out a drug dealer who went missing, or kill someone who stole a tonne load of his supply of Pall Mall. Addicted people get desperate sometimes. The possibilities, as cliché as it sounds, is truly endless. I wasn't interested in killing anyone, besides that annoying tenant on the floor above mine who didn't know where the down button is on his blaring speakers.

"My wife." He stammered ever so briefly before regaining his composure. It was the first time I had ever heard of Roderick Anson stutter.

"Your what?"

"My wife ... I think she's cheating on me."