As I sat there being sewed up, she filled me in on what was in the file. Even though she'd only gone through it once, she had a remarkable memory, another trait spoken of only in vague terms.
She gave me the highlights tour (I expected a fully-typed copy to be ready by the end of the day, excluding photographs, obviously), of which there were depressingly few.
Marcus Red, 35, had been a military man with dreams of making it as a writer. He'd toiled for years on his first novel, which despite the highest of hopes, was rejected by every agent and publishing house in the city, often multiple times.
Every time he was rejected, he took it personally and would find solace in the bottom of a bottle. As I'd originally expected, he wasn't averse to disappearing for days at a time, going on benders which inevitably ended with him being locked up for public intoxication or for assault, usually against a writer (though in this town, it's more remarkable if you meet someone who isn't a writer).
Then each time he would return home, tail between his legs and swear off the writing game once and for all. Until, of course, he got the bug again (they always get the bug again), and get sucked into that hole.
He wrote it as literary fiction, as drama, comedy, horror, hell, he even turned it into a cheesy detective story. That's how desperate this sucker was.
"It's a shame how some people go down that path", she said, as if reading my thoughts. "They get so obsessed with that one idea they think is going to make them a household name they never get over it. Reworking and reworking," she cut the thread as she finished sewing me up, "until both their book and their brains are nothing but a jumbled mess. No use to man nor beast."
"We all done?" I asked. I wasn't sure I could take any more nursing, unless it was whisky in a glass.
"Just be careful", she said. "Don't go getting beaten up again and undoing all my good work."
"I can't make no promises", I putting on my shirt and tie.
"Sometimes", she said, coming over and fixing my tie, "I think you go out deliberately looking for trouble."
"I think trouble has a plenty easy time finding me", I said. I turned, got my jacket and headed out the door.
Out on the street again, I thought about what she said, but it hit a little too close at home, so I focused on the case at hand.
Marcus had been so convinced that he was destined to be a writer that once he left the army, he never got a proper job. Just the occasional piece of work here or there, nothing that would get in the way of his mission.
There had been nothing indicating why someone might want him out of the way until one day he started shopping another book around town. Whilst the contents of this book were not at all clear, it caused a definite ripple in the writing community.
This, I surmised, was what the dame in black was after, why my office was trashed. The only questions now were why is this story so important, and where is it now?
Not that I gave a damn for either the manuscript or the story within, literature could go to hell, as far as I was concerned. But it was, for sure, the most tantalising piece of the puzzle that I'd managed to identify.
Whether or not Marcus still had it, or whether someone had off'd him for it, I didn't know, though if I had to guess I'd say it was the latter.
True, it was possible he had gone to ground, but something in my bones told me that wasn't the case. Still, the best thing I could do was treat this as any other missing person's rap, at least until a body showed up, if it ever did.
I got to my car, got in and lit a smoke. I only usually smoke when someone is trying to kill me. It hadn't happened yet, but I was confident enough that what I was getting into was worth the risk of a preemptory cancer stick.
I started the engine and headed off down the road to the only spot I knew he wouldn't be, his place.
