Detective Fog and the Mission Pigeon

Chapter 5. The Night Continues

November 1, 2015. 

Detective Malyssa sprang into the night. The crisp air and car honks reminded her of late nights just beginning early, and she felt the first drops of rain come down on her hat and her palm when she held it out in disbelief.

It immediately smelled like a downpour even though it was a dribble. The patter on her hat was loud enough to make up for the silent sprinkle daintily wetting the pavement. Pedestrians on all sides sped up their strides, some even running as if it were a storm. Which it certainly, decidedly was not. Despite the spots darkening her jacket and sprinkling her waves of cascading hair, Detective Fog didn't speed up, but she wasn't far from her first stop.

Daedalus Bar wasn't the closest mob hangout to the office, so she stumbled first into Cigar Bar, hot on the heels of a large group momentarily threatening to break fire code before beating a quick retreat when they saw there weren't seats for them all together. She stood against the tide as the crowd moved out of the establishment, then took the last barstool in the house.

A mustached bartender in suspenders who knew her routine placed down, atop a black napkin, a small glass of water passing for a tall shot of vodka. She swigged it back and passed him seven dollars in ones, and a fifty dollar bill in the middle, and was favored with a smile that somewhat gave the game away if anyone had known what to look for.

The fake alcohol imbibed, she took her hat off and placed it on the bar, sat up straight on her stool and stretched her arms into the air, her back arched, in every effort to draw attention to herself. Male faces turned toward her and she took each one in in half a second, marking each of them as unrecognized and therefore useless faces, although more than one with a friendly smile for her, which she returned politely before abandoning her stool, taking her hat in hand, to stalk to the end of the bar where just one face hadn't turned toward her.

"Stink Kalogeropoulos!" she said and sidled up next to him. "I can tell you by the back of your head, you know, even under a trilby. It's your ears, no offense. There's nothing wrong with them, I swear, they're very attractive ears. It's just that one of them goes back more than the other, it's flatter against your head, not to say that the other ear sticks out, it's just like a normal amount of sticking out. Both perfectly good ear options, better than having two equally monkey-like auricles."

The man regarded her without opening his mouth until after she has finished spitting out words and continued his silence after she stopped.

He did wear a tall trilby, and a beige vest with no jacket to be seen presently. Stink Kalogeropoulos was old enough to be Detective Fog's father and was unimpressed by her spiels and pretty much every other aspect of her act. He offered her a cigarette, which she accepted and lit herself with a gaudy gold lighter as big as her small hand, but he wasn't answering any questions she wasn't asking, and waited for her to put one to him before he was prepared to say so much as hello.

It seemed Detective Fog enjoyed the staring contest because she blew smoke out of the side of her mouth and narrowed childish nude eyes at him, devoid of any makeup today, in a never before seen practice of patience.

The contest became a tie when a third party interrupted; a man close to Detective Fog's age and height put his arms around the two, turning the war into a group hug. "Nice to see you, your Fogginess!" said Jason Nakos, who was not a pusher and who had come back from the bathroom after Detective Fog's examination of the bar attendants.

"Damn," she swore out loud. To Stink she gestured at Nakos with her thumb and said, "I can't talk to you with him here." Nakos made a pout face. As unthreatening as he was in the warmth of the local and very public public house, beneath that jacket would be slung two pieces at least — one registered and one unregistered — that had piled up quite a body count for such a young, un-imprisoned man. A good suspect for the murder of Athena Rex, but not a good person to ask the whereabouts of Paul Aniston.