Alfred Noir, Glory M. Duse,
P. Rhadi & Adam Maser
Confidential Investigations
Anywhere, Anytime
it read, on the frosted glass of its front door. Its two side doors say the same thing, but the outside of one is located in San Francisco, the other in New York. I can always move them around if business is slow, but it hasn't slowed yet. So far, we've successfully handled the Case of the Chuckling Man, the Voice of the Armadillo, Six & a Half Dead Long Islanders, King of the Cable Cars, North to Syracuse, and the Phantom of the Napa. I love a mystery.
Adam and Prandy, in their spare time, have just about completed work on a passage strangely similar to the Hellhole. I have asked them whether they mean to get back into soul-changing and try for a second universal continuance — I'm not sure I'd help to build a better Beast — but Adam just shrugs and mumbles something about old times. Cats are inscrutable. The place is, however, perfect for storing my spare body. Alf or Pietro, it's sometimes nice to be able to switch back and forth when the action gets fast and let the other do my sleeping for me, or recover from a bullet wound, sleep off a hangover, or a cold. In fact, the others have just about decided it's time they had spares, too.
. . . And Glory reads my poetry. I recently wrote a piece wondering whether some recorded portions of ourselves made it through with Urtch and what might have become of them.
Excuse me. There's somebody at the San Francisco door. Casts an odd shadow. But who cares, so long as they've got the retainer and the dailies?
End