ACE: PRIVATE DICK
I was at Sheryl's, nursing a cold cup of joe so black it could hide a mortal sin, when I got the news. It'd been a long day; I was down to my last smoke, with the next one already whispering my name, when the waitress came up to me. Pretty little thing named Maddie. She and I went way back.
She handed me a napkin. Red lipstick, conspicuous as a duck at a shooting range, laying it on me: Sent—MURDERED. I could hardly believe my eyes, but I knew it had to be true. The kid still believed the world could deal him a good hand. Guess the house had other plans. I crumpled the napkin and slipped it into my trench coat.
Sent, a small-time operator with a big-time smile. A guy who could charm a coat off a corpse and make you believe it had given it willingly. He'd been my kind of trouble—useful when you needed someone who could grease a lock or loosen a tongue. The city had more saints than it deserved and more sinners than it could count. Sent lived somewhere in the middle, and now he was dead. Probably didn't even know what hit him.
By now the name "Ace, Private Dick" had made the rounds in the dark corners of the street. They knew I was coming. They knew who I was. That's how this town works. News travels fast if you pay it in fear. That wouldn't save 'em, though. Sent was dead, and justice was coming. Not because Sent was some saint, or that he earned it—but because someone had crossed a line you don't cross. Because he was my friend.
I drained the last of the joe and took one more drag before flicking the smoke to the ground and crushing it. Like they did Sent. Like I was gonna do to them. I stepped out into the rain, a name in my pocket and a storm brewing in my gut.
I was coming.
Ace was coming.
-Ace, Private Dick.