Getting Black Eyes in Houston

New Case - Chapter 7

I read books that are supposed to parallel my life. It's a weakness. I used to think that I was being self-indulgent. What doctor goes home and watches Grey's Anatomy? What police officer watches procedurals? What superhero reads comic books? This is me comparing myself to people who actually do something valuable to society, rather than chase magical things that everyone ignores. I used to think that, but that discounts the power of spite and the deep satisfaction of laughing at a flawed concept of who you are.

So, yeah, I read magic detective books. What do I hate most about them? This is ironic. Meta. If I were in a book, this would be where I complain about all the things that I hate about them, and you would see how deep and edgy I am. I hold myself to a very high standard in my own head. If only I could apply the same to my mouth... and other orifices. The primary complaints that I have are about the unrealistic nature of relationships in those books. Everything else, all the magical stuff, and what monsters look and act like? Poetic license. I'm cool with that. I'm cool with unreliable narrators. I'm cool with the fact that everyone hooks up with everything and/or everyone. That caters to the reader's fantasies, and is occasionally kinda hot.

Nope. What bothers me is how big of losers all these people are. I know that seems mean, but seriously, they have between 1 and 6 people that they know, and most of them are acquaintances at best. They know no one else. They don't talk to the people they buy coffee from. They don't have connections to their mail people or bank tellers. It's always just their landlord and someone they're trying to bang. They always have some sort of professional relationship with their hook-up. Ok, maybe that part is fairly realistic. I can buy troubled orphan, but no one else in their life? No one but the three people that regularly get put into danger and some people they have nodding familiarity to, mention for a single sentence? That's fucking terrifying. Those are the people standing between us and oblivion? Why? Why would they give a fuck? It's weird and it bothers me. It feels... creepy. Who has that little connection and that much power?

***

I arrive at the new case's house. Missing person. There are a lot of missing persons in a city the size of Houston. It's hard to know whether a crime involves magic or not, but people get desperate. If the police won't help, and there's even a hint of magic around the situation, I'll usually take a job. If it's clear they're just desperate, I'll quietly refuse. It's hard to know if my special talents will be useful, so I am willing to return advances if things end up being mundane. I'm just not that kind of private eye. I'm lucky enough to be able to afford my meager expenses thanks to a mysterious benefactor, so I tend to be able to afford it.

There is no car in the drive. Nice place, lawn taken care of and green. In August in Texas, that means upkeep. I park on the street and walk up. A teenager answers the door. Sadly, not a dame. It's a girl, but her braces and curly hair could not have been less dame-like. Kid is almost as detective-y. "Hey, kid. I'm supposed to meet a Sarah McCullough about a missing person."

She pulls me inside, the invisible line between the heat and cool almost a palpable wall. "I'm Sarah, " she lisps, the braces clearly new. "'I'm so glad you're here."

New braces, also expensive. The house has a big bay window and a mud room on the way to the living room. It's a suburban wet dream, I'm sure, but it just feels like wasted space to me. I remove my shoes and follow her into the living room. "Soda?"

I look at her for a moment. "Sure. Coke." She grabs a cold one from the fridge and hands it to me, getting herself one as well. We sit on the overstuffed couch, facing the large television. "Move to Houston recently?"

"A year ago. How'd you know?" She opens her coke and took a sip.

"We don't usually say 'soda' here. Aren't you a little young to be hiring a private investigator?" I crack the coke and let the soothing hiss fill the moment. The only sounds in the house are the air conditioning and the sound of our breathing. She stares down at her drink.

Finally, she looks me in the eye. "My parents hired someone to find my brother, but they don't know the whole story, and there's magic involved. I know there is. The police won't help, and the guy my parents hired is a jerk." The story spills out of her like ice from a cooler, in irregular chunks. Her brother, Andy, has been part of a bad crowd, or at least that's what their parents thought. Concerts, inappropriate cartoons, youtube channels. He's gotten mixed up in some stuff that he shouldn't have, and then he ran off. That's the party line. It sounds to me like a normal kid just blowing off steam. Parents had cracked down, and the kid ran. I am starting to think that this is not my kind of case. Then I hear a name that sent chills down to my bones. Augustine Lorre.