Jacob Wolf: Lore and Shadows

Chapter 1: Private Investigator, Jacob B. Wolf

Savouring the last drag of my cigarette, the ember blazed before meeting its end in the ashtray. Rain pattered against the window, a common occurrence in this part of the year, signalling the impending arrival of spring. Leaning back in my chair, feet propped up on my desk as if I owned the place—well, I do—I exhaled a final stream of smoke, filling the room with a haze of tobacco.

Now, introductions aren't exactly my forte so forgive the lack of finesse. Then again, I don’t give a damn. My name's Jacob Blackhearth Wolf. Weird name, I know, but I’m not the one who picked it. Most just call me Wolf, though a few call me Jacob. I’m a Private Investigator, running my agency for the past three years after I got my licence. Got the credentials, the gun, though it's more of a paperweight these days, gathering dust in my desk drawer. Can't say I've ever been eager to pull the trigger with the barrel aimed at someone else.

Let’s set the record straight, though. I’m not your typical hard-boiled detective living life on the edge like some Hollywood noir flick. No. I’m just a small-time P.I. who tackles minor and mundane cases and Sometimes High-profile cases, too. (If you count cheating spouses as High Profiles). The most excitement I've had lately was tracking down a missing raven, and even that turned out to be effortless.

There are Pros and Cons to my situation. Pros: I’m my own Boss. I get to wear what I want and when I want. (Though, being too casual might make my clients uncomfortable). No one is breathing down my neck. And I get to choose what to wear and how to act every day.

Cons: Oh wait, there are none. And as a bonus, I still get paid the standard of fifty dollars an hour. That being said, I never had any failed cases for my clients either. Clean record, straight as an arrow. But lately, the cash flows have been drying up faster than a puddle in the summer sun. It has been some time since my last case, and I still have to pay my rent the next day. My wallet was starting to sprout wings. I really need a client today, otherwise I’m gonna have to use up my last remaining favour to Michael.

My office is rather small. Tucked away on a quiet side street here in Astoria, Queens, right in the middle of a six-story apartment building where I live and a laundromat. It ain’t much to look at. The faded sign that proclaimed my name to the world, its bold painted letters now weathered and worn. Faded but was still there. The same goes for my door. Oakwood. Peeling layers of paint here and there, creaky hinges from the rust, and sometimes a jammed door knob once I lock it. A few years of neglect will do that to a door. And I liked that door…

The window that bears my office’s “Wolf Investigations: Uncovering Truths, Solving Mysteries. No Case Too Mundane or Mysterious. I work with missing animals too. No discounts!” painted sign was not bad. The problem was the blinds. Tattered and frayed. Resembling a mouth missing a few teeth. I should get rid of it, but that was the only thing that prevented the world from seeing the chaos in my office.

Piles of papers and scattered ball-point pens on my desk, empty paper cups and crumpled papers lying near the trash can because I missed the shots, and a few wallpapers that started to peel in the corner of my office. Like I said, it was chaos. The only thing pleasant was the cheap linoleum floor cover I got as a present from a recent client, Lucy. She occasionally visits to check up on me. The words that would fly off her mouth when she saw my office in its current state. She would scold me like a sister to a younger brother. Or a wife to a husband that plays video games as a job. How did playing brain-melting video games become a job and career anyway? This generation really is falling apart. Well, either way, I like my office. It’s the only place I feel comfortable to be in while everything else overwhelms my senses. Literally. It feels like I’m getting a concussion. Nothing a few cigarettes can’t help, then again, this would be my 3rd pack.

Finally, something to break the boredom came—or rang. The telephone on my desk jolted me upright, prompting a quick adjustment of my grey collar shirt before I reached for the receiver. The shrill ring echoed in my office. On the other end of the line, a woman's voice, shaky and anxious, shattered the stillness. Broken, even. She didn’t need to tell me her name, her accent gave it away. Mrs. De Laney. I knew it before she could utter her name, but I brushed off the thought and responded in my usual flat tone, "Wolf Investigations, Jacob Wolf speaking. How may I help?"  After years of practice, those words had become routine. No stumbling, no hesitation—just a practised cadence honed through countless interactions.

"Mr. Wolf, It’s Susan De Laney. I think… you already know why I called," she confessed, her voice cracking mid-sentence. I sighed inwardly. She was right, of course. I knew why she called, and frankly, I had hoped she wouldn't. Hoped it was just paranoia. But there was only one way to find out.

“I have recollections, Yes. But are you sure this time? If you heard it from your neighbours again then they might have thought it was a misunderstanding,” I countered, a hint of scepticism lacing my words.

"No, Mr. Wolf. I… I may not have proof but my instinct… my soul is telling me that my husband is cheating or atleast seeing someone behind my back… I can feel it in my bones" Her words hung heavy in the air, laden with despair and betrayal. I sighed once more, pinching the bridge of my nose with my fingers. The first time she hired me, it was on similar grounds. I found nothing conclusive, but I agreed to hold off on payment until she could provide more substantial evidence or at least until she was sure of it. She had no one else to talk to about this topic. Despite being easy to approach by her colleagues and neighbours, she never really got to befriend any of them.

"Alright. I’ll be there in an hour," I relented, the weight of the impending task settling on my shoulders. She thanked me before hanging up. I sighed again and placed the phone back before running my hand through my messy black hair. Another infidelity case. My speciality, it seemed, in this cesspool of human drama. Then I ran a hand across my chin, feeling the rough edges of my shaved beard. I should learn how to use a straight-edge razor instead of a cheap razor blade.

I stood up from my desk, the worn linoleum creaking beneath my feet as I stretched my tired muscles. Glancing at the mirror hanging on the wall, I couldn't help but grimace at the reflection of a light-tanned man staring back at me.

Deep-set grey eyes stared back at me, tired and haunted, as if have seen and been through enough shit in this world. My messy black hair stuck out in all directions showing my neglect for anything beyond the case at hand. A hint of stubble adorned my jawline, a testament to my disregard for trivial matters like shaving. Then I gazed down at my dirty grey collared shirt. When was the last time I actually bought some nice clothing? I can’t remember when or how I even got this cheap shirt but it served its purpose through the years. Don’t even get me started on my black, leather boots. The wrinkles were now permanent and greyed to an outline. Despite my lack of exercise I still looked fairly normal in terms of body size, still lean and athletic. Points for that I guess.

I chuckled dryly at the sight, shaking my head in mild disgust. "You're a real sight, Wolf," I muttered to myself.

Pushing aside the reflection, I reached for my black trench coat, the fabric worn and frayed from years of use. It was like a second skin, comforting in its familiarity. I never leave my office without it. It’s like my signature look. Slipping it on, I buttoned it up to ward off the chill that seemed to permeate my very bones. Completing my ensemble with a black fedora, I adjusted it just so, the brim casting a shadow over my weary eyes. You’re probably thinking ‘What’s with the black get up?’ Nothing much really, The trenchcoat was a gift from someone I knew, and the fedora was given to me by one of my mentors in the past. Standing tall at six inches, I cut a striking figure in the dimly lit office.

I pulled open my desk drawer and saw my dusty revolver that hadn’t been used since my office’s debut. On one hand, I’m glad that I never got to use it besides that time I went to a shooting range. On the other hand, I felt like I owed more to this gun than to let it rot covered in dust and rust. I shrugged the thought off, grabbed another pack of cigarettes next to it, and pushed the drawer closed. Walking over to the door, I pulled it open with a loud creak and the chime of the welcome bell above me, then headed outside and locked it. It was raining but not enough to make me drenched even if I walked over to Mrs. De Laney’s location, which I plan to. Shoving my hands into my coat pocket, I walked under the rain. It’s going to be a soggy morning.