Nightfall fell swiftly on the city.  The sun hastily sank into the horizon, 
almost as if it were glad to be out of sight.  With the passing of the sun,
the city of Crummton lost its daytime aura of respectability and took on a 
sinister air.  Those townspeople that had steady daytime employment streamed
back to their families and homes and locked their doors.  Shadows danced 
around the flickering streetlights that illuminated the streets.  The 
factories and shops fell silent, but by no means was the city quiet.  Other... 
businesses took up the slack, ones that took advantage of the lessened 
scrutiny at night to conduct their affairs.  

   Drake Jackson watched the ritual changing of the guard from his
second-story window with anticipation.  Nighttime was his favorite time of 
day, because that was when things started getting interesting; he thought in
terms of "nightdawn" and "sunfall".

   With a sigh, he lowered the blinders and looked around the office.  The
blade of the ceiling fan turned lazily, casting shadows in the light of the
dingy bulb which lit the cramped room.  A grey trenchcoat hung on the coat 
stand in the corner of the room.  Drake ran a hand through his tousled black
hair, mournfully remembering the loss of his favorite fedora in a scuffle last
week.  A pity, too; the hat and coat went so well together.

   His desk stood near the window, as cluttered as usual.  Most of the space
was taken up by piles of folders and old newspapers.  A typewriter perched on 
top of one of the piles, slightly dusty from disguse.  A pizza box lay on one
of the other piles, advertising "Pappy's Pizza: Cheapest in the City."

   It was cheap alright, and it showed in the taste.  Still, it was food, and
the sight of the box reminded Drake that it had been a while since he'd last
eaten.  He flipped the box open, and grunted.

   "Hold the roaches," he mumbled, tossing the box out the open window.  Ah,
the life of a detective.

   He walked over to the tiny refrigerator he kept just for these occasions,
and rummaged around, fishing out a half-eaten tuna sandwich.  Satisfied, he
walked back to his comfy rolling chair and sat down, propping his feet up on
the desk.  As he munched on his dinner, he reflected on business over the last
couple of weeks, or rather, the lack of it.  

   He flipped through the recent case files, recalling each case as he touched
the wrinkled paper.  A harried housewife thought her husband was cheating on 
her and wanted Drake to dig up some evidence.  (He was, Drake did.)  A crazy 
old loon claimed that his neighbor buried a body in the backyward.  (It turned
out to be the family dog.)  A little girl lost her kittycat and came to him, 
begging for help. (Not a chance.)  Boring, boring, boring.  What did it 
matter, whether he solved them or not?

   It is the nature of the universe to reward the bored with excitement of the
undesirable kind, and thus, as Drake closed the last folder, there was a knock
at the door.

   Drake opened the door reluctantly, expecting another old lady, or perhaps
the landlord, if today was an especially unlucky day.  What he got was a beefy
young tough with a nervous twitch and the beginnings of a spare tire.  He was
flushed, obviously excited over something, and breathing a little heavily from
exertion.  He was dressed rather shabbily- a cap covering his head, a
sweat-stained t-shirt and denims on his ample body.  From the looks of him, he
was probably a bodyguard, or maybe someone in a less reputable line of work.
Drake had ticked off a few people here, ruffled a few feathers there, so 
visits from muscle guys were bad news in his book.

   Drake eyed the visitor cautiously and slowly reached toward his belt.

   "Do you work here?" the goon spit out.  "'Cuz I really need help bad."
The tone of his voice was urgent, almost pleading.  It was also a bit hoarse,
as if he'd been shouting.

   Drake blinked.  His conversations with big guys like the one in front of
him were usually limited to grunts and curses, but... a client was a client,
after all.

   "Sure," he said, in as friendly a manner as possible, "come on in, have a
seat."  He waved the other man in and closed the door behind him.

   "So... what seems to be the problem?" he said, walking the burly man over
to the wooden stool that served as his confessional booth, interrogation
chair, and psychiatrist's couch.  The big lug sat down and took off his cap,
grasping it between his hands.

   "It's... it's about my girl," he said.

   "What, your woman been cheating on you?" Drake asked, pulling his own chair
over and sliding in.  The goon winced.

   "No, no," he moaned, shaking his head.  "It's my daughter- she's missing."

   "Missing, eh?" Drake said.  "Have you tried the cops?  They handle this 
sort of thing, you know, Mister..."  He waved, prompting the client for a
name.

   "Name's Robbie," the client replied.  "I can't go to the cops.  Don't trust 
'em."

   "And so you came here.  Hmm..."  Drake scratched his chin.  "Have you
crossed anybody lately?  The Outfit?"

   "I *am* the Outfit," Robbie mumbled.

   Drake sat up with a start.  "What was that?"  He eyed his visitor 
cautiously.

   "I work for the Outfit," Robbie said, a little more clearly.

   Drake raised an eyebrow and slowly leaned back in his chair again, chewing 
his lip thoughtfully.  "If that's so...then, why would you need to come to a 
guy like me?"  He gestured.  "I mean, you must have plenty of... resources at 
your disposal."

   "...I didn't say I was high up in the organ... uh... organization," Robbie 
added.  

   Drake pounded his head against the desk a few times and sighed.  

   "Still, can't you, you know, ask the high-ups for help, use your contacts?"

   Robbie shrugged helplessly.  "I asked around- people laughed at me, told me
I should take care of things myself."  He hung his head.  "Buddy, you gotta 
help me.  I got nowhere to go and I'm out of options."

   "I dunno," Drake pondered.  "I don't usually take cases from people on
the... other side of the law."

   "C'mon, help a guy who's down on his luck?" Robbie begged.  "This is my 
sweet little girl I'm talkin' about.  She's all I have, I can't lose her!"

   The gruff detective tuned out the babbling man and thought back to a time
when things were simpler.  Memories of little girls with little blond curls, 
smiling women, the scent of fresh-baked apple pie, laughs, smiles, all floated
through his head.

   Noticing the odd look Robbie was giving him, Drake shook his head to clear
it of the phantom images.  He reached out and shook Robbie's hand with a firm 
grip.

   "Pal, you got yourself a detective."


=====
META 1
Chapter 1
Scene 1

by NeoPuu, neopuu@sandwich.net

http://www.chaoseed.com/btr/meta/