Tales From Archiveland

Matthew Patrick: Private Eye pt. 1

A/N: Welcome! Not at all sure what I'm getting myself into, but then again, neither are you. So let's begin!

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The  brunette dame who brought it in introduced herself as Stephanie, stroking the cat she carried and watching me with an air of faint disgust. It was my first case in months, and now I not so much worked at my desk than slept at it. The office I'd often drifted off in smelled of Diet Coke and dust, just the way I liked it, and it would be a rare day when I would let myself be seen without a can or two of the good stuff hanging around. I was a private eye, it said so on my door, so it must be true.

Steph's case was simple: five jars of peanut butter. Gone. And as always, I knew just where to look.

The Red Lion Cafe was a hub of activity in the Upper City. Everyone from the oil barons to the slum folk passed through here every once in a while, and the cafe jazz band entertained them all. If there was a peanut butter thief on the loose, they'd be the first to know. I slid backstage after one of their performances to meet up with one of them, a good buddy of mine. Mark. He played a sweet melody on the trumpet, even sweeter when the ladies came around, if you know what I'm saying. As always, he was in his performance outfit, with a white suit complimented by a black tie. I almost barfed in laughter the first time I saw him in that. I remember a time he didn't have to dress up to play his trumpet. Him and I go way back.

"Mr. Patrick... Matt, I swear I don't know about any peanut butter stealing maniac on the loose."

"You sure about that?"

"'Course I'm sure. You know as well as I that I'd tell you if I knew anything."

"So my lead's dead, is what you're saying."

"Not necessarily," Mark sighed, lowering his eyes for a second or two. "I do know a guy in the slums who may help you... if this thief is low enough to steal peanut butter, he'll most likely live in that rat-infested disease pool. And I don't mean to brag, but my Jack's got tabs on everyone there."

I said goodbye to my old friend before hurrying out to the slums. The slums were a dangerous place back then, where robbers ran rampant, sickness was as common as drinks were in the cafe, and rickety building meant that new houses were often built on the rubble of the old. The alleyways were silent as I passed by, but I could feel many pairs of eyes watching me with several different emotions. Confusion. Anger. Fear. Jealousy. At last I found the door Mark had pointed me to. I knocked on the door gently, for fear of accidentally demolishing the place. A pale man swung open the door. His ice-blue eyes searched me up and down, before saying in a scratchy voice,  "You with th' coppers? You gonna knock the house down? 'Cause thank Jay-sus if you do, it might just kill off those damned rats."

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End of Part One