Anyway, here's the second day of writing, it's dull, but it's words. Plus I know I will continue it at some point, because there's gonna be a bear, yup a bear!! Grrr.
Balk lets the cigarette fall from his lips and crushes it beneath his blue wing-tip as he lights another. His body slants against the old street lamp.
The fog and drizzling rain make everything gray. He feels like he's in an old detective movie. He hates old detective movies.
A young woman in fur sits a few feet away at the bus stop, just within ear-shot.
It's her fault he has to be here he scowls to himself.
“No, I can't come to your office, they have people following me,” she had told him over the phone. “And wear a disguise.”
He tried to tell her he was no good with disguises, he knows how to blend, to go unnoticed. But she insisted, and she had the money. So here he is, looking like Groucho Marx in a thousand-dollar suit and a Chicago Cubs cap.
“Thank you,” she tells him as she takes out a small envelope and sets it beside her. “This is all the information I have at the moment and $5,000 to get you started.”
Balk doesn't look at the envelope or the girl, he just listens, still a bit upset about the situation. He can't believe he forgot to bring his overcoat. His best suit is slowly soaking in the dirty rainwater.
“You have to find him quickly, because he won't last long without his special diet,” she continued. “Please, understand that this isn't just any dog. He's everything to me.”
Balk coughs as he chokes on the smoke, partially because he doesn't really smoke, but mostly because he's shocked.
“Your what?” He turns and looks directly at her for the first time, just as the bus approaches.
The woman jumps on without a word.
“Fucking animals,” Balk says to anyone around as the bus pulls away.
Maybe it's because his sister is a veterinarian, his only sister, his sister who won't even speak to him, no matter how hard he tries. Or maybe it's because his last two cases dealt solely with chickens, and both went horribly wrong; he has the scars to prove it.
Either way, Balk didn't have the luxury of being too particular about cases. His cash-flow was wilting and his bar tab growing. He had plenty of nice things, like clothes and a nice apartment, but that was from money he made a long time ago. When he had been the only detective in town.
Now, though, Balk takes what he can get, animals or not. He's sick of living like a poor farm-boy off at college. Noodles and bread for every meal.
He stuffs the envelope into his breast pocket without looking at it and walks back to his office to get a change of clothes.
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