The Book of Midnight - A Percival Blackwood Casefile

Ch. 1 - The Minx in Malachite

It was the summer of 1947 in The Big City.  Jackie Robinson had just joined the Dodgers, becoming the first African-American to go pro, there was a bit of a kerfuffle going on over in New Mexico about aliens or some nonsense and something called the 'Dead Sea Scrolls' had been discovered over in the Middle East, piquing my interest.  

But I digress, this case began the same way they all do, with a rap at my door.

The morning sun did its thing, making the planet sweat and we'd had a heavy rain the morning before which didn't help things at all.  It was basically humid enough this particular day that my 5th-story downtown office could've been designated a swamp.  I had the window open and the fan working itself into a tizzy.  I'd been reading the lead story in that morning's paper, something to do with the city's District Attorney giving one of his many speeches and hobnobbing with the rich and powerful.  Apparently, this speech was intended to reach the ears of the next generation over at the University, something to do with making the best of the wonders this world has to offer.  His hyena grin almost jumped out of the photograph as he shook the hand of some politician or another, a group of people gathered around behind them.  Just a glance was all you needed to know this man loved being in the spotlight.  I skimmed the article but it wasn't anything I had any interest in.  Politics were for the college kids and old men with money, not the average schlub like yours truly. The heat had been getting to me so I  gave up on the paper, letting it fall into my lap. I kicked my feet up onto my desk and tugged the brim of my hat so it hung low over my eyes, keeping the sunlight at bay, and quickly began to snooze.  Unfortunately, like the old saying goes 'no rest for the wicked' and if that's the case, then I must be the wickedest son of a bitch on this planet.  That was the only explanation for why I hadn't been sleeping well lately.  But mere moments after I'd resigned myself to another wasted afternoon in the meager and dingy little office I could barely afford, somewhere out in the darkness beyond my eyelids, I heard a light rap at the door.   

See?  I told ya that's how they all start.

"If you're here to sell me something, I've already got two of them." I hollered to the blurred shadow across the pane of the door.

From there, things went the way they always do, with someone walking in.  Thing is, most of the clients who walk through my door weren't as attractive as this one.  In all honesty, she could've easily given Hedy Lamarr a run for her money.  I was used to my usual clientele generally consisting of the typical housewife wanting proof of her husband's infidelity.  Or the occasional shmuck who came in off the street wanting help getting out of a bad situation.  This minx, however, was one-of-a-kind.  She was at least five foot ten, and I'm pretty sure that was when she was out of heels.  She also had these deep emerald eyes that could pierce you like a knife through butter.  Her ebony hair fell to her pale neck and she was wrapped in an outfit of a dark green that clung as tightly to her body as Grannie Blackwood used to hug her grandbabies.  She was a complete knockout.  

The dame, not my grannie.

"Mister Blackwood?" she asked with the faintest hint of a southern accent.  From the look of her, I never would've guessed this big city mouse was in actuality a southern belle.

I quickly tipped the hat to the back of my head and sat up in my chair.  I hurriedly straightened my rumpled tie, not that it helped my appearance I'm sure.   It was so humid I likely resembled a candle in a bonfire but she didn't seem to notice.  Hell, this broad was hot enough to fry me herself.