Bob Moore: No Hero

Chapter 3

I pulled myself from my bed, still fully clothed from the night before. It wasn't that it had been so long or stressful, I mean, anymore than usual, it was that I hadn’t had much downtime since my previous job. Mr. What's-his-name, fire dude, had initially showed up with a stack of cash and a "She just left, follow her" timeline. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and straightened my shirt. Entering the bathroom, I hit the switch and waited as the fluorescent light flickered to life.

I looked like hell; really, I do most of the time. Dark, close-cropped hair framing a square face with smallish eyes, making my nose look overly large. Thin lips and a slight cleft to my chin are the only features that set me apart from the rest of the thirty-something males in my peer group. My hair was messy in that 'did he just wake up or did he do that on purpose' sort of way, which was coming back in vogue. My white, collared, button-down dress shirt looked like I'd slept in it. I could either throw a jacket back over it or change it. I glanced back at my bed. In the indentation my body had left was my jacket. So much for that. I removed the shirt and grabbed my toothbrush.

I am not muscular - at least not compared to the supers I often work with - but I’m not unhealthy. The stereotype of the overweight PI isn't exactly untrue. Many of my competitors seem to live on a steady diet of coffee, doughnuts, and hot dogs. I just don’t have the time for it. Coffee makes me pee during stakeouts and I can't eat a hotdog or doughnut without getting it all over myself. I've taken to bringing trail mix and jerky on stakeouts. And honestly, you can only eat so much of that stuff.

I splashed some water on my face to complete my morning ablutions and turned to my closet for a fresh shirt. If I were a super, my costume would be a white shirt, black jacket, black slacks, black belt (with the Inertial Dampener built in, which was still plugged in), and patent leather shoes. Black, of course. No tie. That would just be too formal.

The jacket, slacks, and shoes were treated by Ted to be resistant to fire and cold, plus they keep me safe from electricity by funneling it to the ground through the shoes. Ted built an early version of his PPP into the clothes so that I can have them project a variety of styles. Doesn't remove wrinkles, however. He also gave me a long overcoat that is supposed to be projectile-proof and better insulated, and a hat that is supposed to be as protective as a motorcycle helmet. I rarely wear them. It's mostly too hot around here for overcoats and I don't like hats. Too cliché for my tastes.

I grabbed my jacket off the bed, exited my bedroom trying to shake the wrinkles out of it, passed through my kitchen, and entered my office through the hidden door in the waiting room.

My flat is a huge, open room above a string of businesses and restaurants in the heart of downtown. It's a bit loud during the day, but at night it becomes a ghost town, if you consider the occasional whore and drug addict ghosts. The space is situated so that my living areas are at the back with an office and waiting room in the front. Living where you work makes for a convenient commute, but it can drive you crazy if you don't have clearly delineated spaces. This is helped by a hidden door from the waiting room to the rest of the space creating the illusion that it is only an office for clients.

On my desk was a steaming cup of coffee. I smiled and threw my jacket over the back of my chair. Khan was in early today.

"You slept in today," a voice called out from behind a plant near the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street.

"Really?" I looked at my watch as he exited from behind the plant with a dusting cloth in his hand. "Seems early to me."

"You think anything before lunch is early," Khan smiled.

Khan is the product of very good breeding. His parents are two of the most powerful supers in the world. They had high hopes for their son (as evidenced by his name). Unfortunately, those haven't borne out yet. Khan has dark, thick, close-cut hair that he pulls forward in a style that I call "The Caesar." His dark eyebrows, pale blue eyes, and soul patch just below perfectly-formed lips have had more than one of my female (and a few male) customers swooning. When he smiles, you can't help but smile back. He is naturally muscular and a few inches over six feet. Basically, he is a coat of white paint and a fig leaf from a Michelangelo.