This is me testing the waters on this site... If anyone reads this and drops a little feedback, then it'll all be worth it...  My idea is that a grizzled old school Noir detective is still living the lifestyle 30 years on, still working as a private dick in the mid-seventies. The conflict would hopefully arise from his withering body and inability to keep up with the events around him. I think my pacing may be in need of tuning and I'm not sure what level of metaphor is too much, like pepper on eggs I just keep shakin' it on and hoping for the best...

The bar was small, the smallest bar I’d ever sat in, no more than ten feet by five; and it was completely empty, just myself and the young bartender who kept calling me ‘brother’. The pitiful cocoa-stain moustache and open shirt said lousy hippie, but the bourbon bottle in his hand said ‘come in and sit right here’. We had been talking about bowling while a saxophone as smooth as liquid chocolate coiled itself around us, smoke hung thick, like how water would look in space, so heavy you could reach out and grab the stuff. That relaxed, drawling voice reverberates over my ears, ‘I gotta say brother; you don’t seem the type to roll pins…’ A heavy drag on my panatella and gentle rising plumes tell him I need a minute to take the atmosphere in. Between the jukebox, the fine smokes and some of the best drinks I’d had in a while it felt as if the whole place was oozing over me, wrapping me up in a warm layer of blue smoke and inexplicable comfort. ‘This next one’ll knock you for six man, trust me; this is a twelve year old little number that I been savin’ for a long time. You’re about the first cat I actually wanted to split it for.’

The bourbon looks damn good, dressed up with ice and a fancy glass; a man of habit like myself always takes it to his nose first. It was rich earth, soft burned oak and wisps of charcoal around the edges, when it touched my lips I froze, letting the sensation move over every inch of my mouth, feeling it slither down my throat and letting the tender flesh come alive and crackle with the growing flames. The bartender simply watches in silence as I sit there, motionless and unreachable. When the glass was finally laid down on the bar, I couldn’t help but let myself smile with satisfaction. He stubs his cigarette out triumphantly and shoots me a cocky half-grin, ‘Brother, I have waited years for a cat to enjoy his drink that much, a true appreciator… I love it!’ He poured himself a glass and contrary to his age, took all due time and care to appreciate his drink, a small part of my brain shuddered with horror thinking he was going to empty his glass without a care. In my eyes, the boy has done good.

He lit another cigarette and closed his eyes with the same sensory overload this bar cast on me, the music slowed down and brought us smoothly into a hazy lull, and neither of us could work up the strength or determination to say anything. Muscles relaxed, bones ceased their aching and the pressure was taken away from behind my eyes. Coming down from this was not going to happen anytime soon, but we had to talk business at some point. He pulled a stool from under the bar to sit opposite me, for the next few minutes it was nothing but the sweet kiss of perfectly aged alcohol, masked by ever-changing clouds of smoke, looking as tangible as the wax blobs floating in a lava lamp. ‘Listen man, my old man needs you to find a cassette tape.’ He doesn’t finish, just let’s the words sit there as if they were explanation enough. ‘So it’s here? In the district?’ I listened to the sound of my own voice, made heavy and deep with years of tobacco, and cracking with age and bad health. ‘Come to think of it, there anything else you can tell me? How the hell will I know what I’m looking for?’ the kid bartender smiles again, as if I was asking the dumbest question someone in my line of work could ask. ‘How many cassette players are there gonna be here? Just listen to the tape, there ain’t gonna be disco on it.’ He was right, cassettes were damned expensive, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to dish out for one. But it was a big area to search, and the kid wasn’t told an awful lot by his ‘old man’. ‘Old man says that Nikola apartments on East 57^th are your best bet.’

That was fine, I’d gotten things done with less information, it’d have to do for now. I reached into my withered sports jacket for a black leather wallet, faded to a sort of dull grey over years of long service. ‘Put it away man, I couldn’t spoil that bourbon by chargin’ you for it, it’s on me brother. If you need another, I’m here all night and the bottle’s open, man.’ He looked completely sincere, almost puppy dog-esque with his big, dumb eyes and amiable smile. I didn’t let it bother me any, dismissing him with a generic ‘I might be back for that drink.’

I stepped outside to look for a phone box, finding an ambitiously graffiti-laden cubicle, the obscene bright lights casting shades of purple light out through the thin glass. At least the kids were taking the time to hand paint their mess, maybe it wasn’t too bad. I climbed into the narrow enclosure and locked myself inside securely, leaning against the wall with the phone to my right. I took the receiver and placed a call to my office.  An unbearably sexual, husked and sultry voice trickled down the line softer than anything to be found in the bar; ‘Shifting Sand Enterprises, Michelle speaking.’ She was far too young for a half boxed old man like me, and we both knew that, but that didn’t stop us dropping lines like Bogie and Bacall whenever the opportunity arose. ‘I’m taking in the atmosphere in a cosy little place in Logan Square, I was just wondering whether you might’ve cared to join me.’ Michelle just whispered a sort of low, smoothly humming laughter as she exhaled, I could almost taste the cigarette smoke and the perfume coming through the receiver. ‘Sweetheart, you’re going to make a bad girl out of me yet, aren’t you?’ The thought alone was enough… ‘Another time then, I suppose today I’m business. The kid said I had to pickup a cassette in some ruskie projects on East 57^th.’ She gave it a second or two, but didn’t have to think about where I was talking about for a second, she knew damn near everyone in Chicago, and that’s why she’d kept the job of the Boss’ personal receptionist for seven long years, instead of being thrown back into the pool after six months like every other. ‘I have an aunt living there, and they’re Polish-Americans, been here a long, long time. I’ll ask her to put you up for the night; you won’t have to tell a soul why.’ I suppose that blonde wasn’t bottle after all… I might’ve lost a bet on that one…