Nick Grayson: The Truth in the Lies

Chapter 1

Monday

New Orleans is an interesting city. Cities, they're like dames – each with a story to tell, a personality that lingers long after the sun sets. But New Orleans? She's a real broad, a seductive siren with secrets hidden beneath that veneer of allure. In the daylight, she struts her stuff like a seasoned showgirl. Colorful facades flash their pearly whites, the sultry notes of jazz leak out onto the cobblestone streets, and the scent of beignets and strong coffee gives a wink from every corner. She's the kind of gal who'll lure you into her dance, spinning you through lively streets like a partner who knows all the steps.

The sun-soaked tales are spun into the air, as captivating as the lure of a poker game in a dimly lit parlor. It's all there in the twinkle of the brass bands, the laughter of her denizens, and the camaraderie that oozes like molasses in the humidity. But hold up – don't let that dazzling smile fool you. Behind those wide eyes, a city's got secrets, buried deep like treasure in a bayou's heart. The moonlit streets whisper stories you won't find in the tour guides. Ghostly tales woven into the lacework of her balconies, whispered by the branches of ancient oaks standing guard over the past.

You wander through her enigma, through the promises of nightlife and the hint of danger. The streets that dazzle with neon lights in the French Quarter also conceal shadowy alleys, where whispers of backdoor deals and schemes chase the night breeze. New Orleans? She's not just jazz and jambalaya. Beneath the sparkle, shadows dance, and stories unravel in smoke-filled rooms. Behind every creole door and every shotgun shack, there's a tale of heartache, longing, and secrets as tangled as the vines climbing her walls.

So remember, as you get lost in her seductive embrace, New Orleans is no angel. She's a classic femme fatale, luring you in with promises of excitement, but leaving you tangled in her web of intrigue and uncertainty. You're in her world now, kid, where the moonlight casts shadows as deep as the mysteries that haunt her.

That day and night difference between the bright glamour of New Orleans and the darkness of her dangerous side is the same day and night difference that lies within every man, and none more so than that of Nick Grayson. A Private Eye established for a few years in a nondescript office in the Treme neighborhood, he sat at his desk, a lit cigarette between his lips, his right hand fondling a half-empty bottle of bourbon. He was an enigma within society, a seeming anachronism in a pair of slacks and a white dress shirt with the tie loosened and the sleeves rolled up, and suspenders to boot. His tousled tan trenchcoat hung on a coat rack behind him, a grey fedora topping it. He was every inch the 1940s detective in a modern world that had passed him by, and he didn't even know it.

Not that Nick was all that old. He was thirty-six, and as fit as a man who didn't care about his lungs or his liver could be. Dark hair, mussed from the hat he had worn, sat over dark piercing eyes. His desk was a mess of paper, crumpled notes, a smattering of bullets, a deck of cards, a flat computer monitor, a number of pens, three full ashtrays, two empty bourbon bottles, and one half-empty. Somewhere amid the strewn and crumpled papers was an antique rotary phone that still worked . The final decoration was a small desk calendar, showing off Miss October, seated in a reclining position, her arms reaching up, her hands clasped behind her head, and her naked bosoms the focal point of the picture.

The bourbon was "Black Bayou Bourbon," Nick's favorite. It was locally distilled in the heart of New Orleans, a hidden gem known only to the true connoisseurs of the city. Black Bayou Bourbon was founded in the early 1900s by a French immigrant named Jacques Duvalier, who brought his family's secret distilling techniques from the old country. The distillery sat on the edge of a misty bayou, where the unique climate and rich, swampy terrain imparted a distinctive character to the whiskey. The bourbon was known for its deep amber color and a complex flavor profile, boasting notes of caramel, dark chocolate, and a hint of smoky oak, with a smooth finish that left a lingering warmth. It was the kind of drink that spoke of history and tradition, a testament to the resilience and craftsmanship of New Orleans itself. Every sip was a reminder of the city's soul, making it the perfect companion for a man like Nick, who found solace and strength in its rich, layered depths.