My cigarette smoke mixed with the smoke of my .38. If business was as good as my aim, I'd be on easy street. Instead I've got an office on 49th Street and a nasty relationship with a string of collection agents. My name is Doyle. John Doyle. What people call is something else again. I'm a private eye. It says so on my door. I keep two magnums in my desk. One's a gun, and I keep it loaded. The other's a bottle and it keeps me loaded. Suddenly my door swung open, and in walked trouble. A dame, as usual. The dame said she had a case. She sounded like a case her self, but I can't choose my clients.
It was another baffling case. But then you don't hire a private eye for the easy ones. The last thing I wanted this morning was a case to solve, but the broad was persuasive.
Most broads are, some how. She was the pushy type, the kind who'd break your heart, or maybe your arms. I told her it would cost her fifty bucks a day, plus expenses. The sound of greenbacks slapping across my palm is music to my ears any day.
I stepped out into the rainy streets and reviewed the facts. A top man had been knocked off, in public during the day odd place for cut him down. I'm supposed to find out who knock him off. Questions poured down like rain. Where were the shots fired? Who's the mug that cut him down? And what were they doing it for? I had a hunch that before this was over I'd be sorry I asked.
First I figured I'd try Ruby. Jack was a small time trouble boy, and owner of a local dive The Carousel...