collapse

Author Topic: It Only Rains at Night  (Read 1341 times)

Offline Nigama

  • Dead
  • Antediluvian
  • *****
  • Posts: 1883
It Only Rains at Night
« on: December 10, 2015, 01:50:40 AM »
A friend of mine, BadMotivator, wrote this first chapter for a different game/setting on a now defunct forum but never continued it. I always liked it, so recently I figured I'd steal it and write my own story based in the WoD in order to see if I could work on my noir writing skills when I have no RP to respond to. So again, this first chapter is mostly not me, although I have changed some names and other small details. However, after this chapter it will be all me. If you enjoy it, great! If not, don't mind me just talking to myself over in this corner.

It Only Rains at night is a weekly Noir serial. Please adjust your monitors to Black and White before proceeding.

***


Chapter 1


The sign on the door read Trillen & Spector. I'm Spector. Don't let the sign fool you, there ain't any Trillen. Never was. I put two names on the door and double bill the clients. People don't ask too many questions, especially not when you're the PI they hired to cover up their mess. It gives you a little leverage, and a little was all I needed.

This ain't a great job. The pay stinks and you get shot at. Eventually, your wife walks out on you, tired of long nights and dames in high hems and low necklines. So you learn to crawl in to bed at night with nothing to comfort you except a half-empty bottle and a gun digging into your ribs. The only thing that makes this job worth doing is you always feel better about yourself after seeing what lowlifes the clients are.

I was watching the cigarette smoke curl upwards when she walked in. She was trouble, real trouble. The type of trouble that has really great legs and bright red hair. Dame trouble, my favorite kind.

"Are you Mr. Trillen?" she asked, the words dripping with something that smelled like honey but stung like hornets. She was dressed in a green overcoat that was speckled with wet. I hadn't heard it start raining, but a bottle of scotch had been distracting me since noon.

"No. Trillen's out. I'm Arlen Spector, Miss ..." My eyes ran over her like an old man at a farmer's market. The only noise was the whispered lop of the ceiling fan. She dropped into a chair, sobbing. "Look, Miss, if you need help you're in the right office. But cut off the water works. I don't do sap."

"Alright, Mr. Spector." She wiped her eyes dry and poured herself a shot of my scotch. "My name's Della Raines, Doctor Della Raines. And someone's trying to kill me." She threw back the scotch and hissed out a breath. "What are you drinking? Paint thinner?"

"I never buy the good stuff for the office," I said out loud, and then thought, "If I did, there'd be no reason to go home at night." I poured some scotch into my plastic cup. "So what makes you think someone's gunning for you. Doc?" I slugged back the three fingers of firewater and tried not to shudder too much.

She unbuttoned her coat, revealing a tight black dress with a plunging neckline. From an inner pocket she pulled a bunch of papers. She leaned over and slapped the papers on my desk. It was obvious she was doing this for my benefit. I wasn't going to go gaga over a dame, no matter how good she looked, but I wasn't about to pass up a free show either. She stayed leaned forward, a smirk on her lips.

"You can sit up now, Doc. I've had plenty of time to enjoy the view." She blushed and straightened up stiffly. There was anger in her eyes. "Look, I appreciate it. But if someone's trying to kill you, I think sleeping in your bed is a little risky." I picked up the papers and let her fume. They were letters, about thirty of them. Some were hand-written, others made of cut up magazine articles. All of them were threats on the Doctor's life. All of them ended with "You know how to stop it, Frau Doktorin."

"If those aren't enough for you, someone broke into my office two nights ago. The police say it was a prank by some of my students, but I don't agree." Her voice was sharp and bitter.

"Look, lady, if you want my help you have to play by my rules. And rule number one is knock off all the dame tricks. No crying, no coy, no cuddling up close. If someone wants you dead, they're going to want me dead soon, too. And I can't afford to be dead. Got it?" She nodded. "Good, cuz I'm going to try to keep you alive, but I ain't gonna die doing it." I handed back one of the letters. "They all end the same way, Doc. What're they talking about?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I'm a history professor. We don't really make enemies in our line of work. Well, lots of people hate us, but only for four years or so until they graduate. And I've never had one angry like this."

Something smelled funny, and it wasn't the cheap cologne my nephew sent me for Christmas. She was lying and doing a bad job of it. I wished I was playing poker against her and not taking her case. But I hadn't had a job in over a month. The booze was running low and cash was tight.

"Alright. You got somewhere safe you can stay for a few days? I got some looking around to do."

"My sister lives in Shadydale. I can stay there." She wrote down an address and phone number, handed me five hundred dollars as a retainer and left. I waited fifteen minutes, folded the bills into my pocket and grabbed my coat and hat. Five hundred would last a long time at Jake's and I needed a drink.

It was a two block walk in light rain. I hated the wet, sour smell that steamed off the asphalt. Oily puddles sparkled in headlights and tires rubbed raw against the roads. San Miguel's a dirty, dangerous place, filled with dirty, dangerous people.

A gun with a man holding it stepped out of the alley in front of me. The barrel wagged twice, inviting me into the shadows. "I think you want to cooperate, Mr. Spector." The man behind the iron had a low voice hidden behind a slouch brimmed hat. He was bigger than the gun by a lot, but it didn't seem that way at the moment.

"It's such a beautiful night out, who'd want to ruin it by arguing?" I asked as I turned and walked into the alley. His witty repartee consisted of a gun butt to the back of my skull. At least it was delivered with impeccable timing.
« Last Edit: December 10, 2015, 05:45:31 AM by Nigama »
"You may not remember us, but we may be responsible for your lack of memory."