A String of Lies

The dimly lit room was thick with cigarette smoke, swirling around the solitary figure seated at a mahogany desk. The single lamp cast a shadow over his chiseled features as he puffed on a Lucky Strike. The air hung heavy with the scent of cheap whiskey.

Private eye Jack Malone had seen it all in this city of shattered dreams. But tonight, as the rain beat against the windowpanes like a relentless drum, something told him this night was different.

A dame walked in, all legs and curves poured into a slinky dress that hugged her in all the right places. She had eyes like emeralds, but they were filled with doubt. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

"I need your help, Malone. My…husband's gone missing, and I'm afraid he's gotten himself mixed up with some shady characters."

Malone leaned back in his chair, studying her carefully. "Why me, sweetheart?"

"Because you're the best, Malone. And I've heard you've got a knack for untangling knots that others wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole." She reached into her purse and pulled out a photograph, sliding it across the desk.

He picked up the photo, his eyes narrowing as he studied the face staring back at him. He smiled. "Well, well, well. Looks like we've got ourselves a parrot in a hat."

The dame's brow furrowed in confusion.

Malone tapped the photograph with his index finger. "It's a string of lies, doll. I recognize this mug. I’m guessing he latched onto a pile of your dough, then left you hanging.” He paused. “Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, beautiful, but he’s dead.”

He came around the desk, put an arm around her.

“So, is there anything else I can do for you?”