He walked out into the night, his feet treading lightly through the puddles. The rain, ceaseless in its patter, fell endlessly from the sky onto his battered felt hat. It was the third day without work, and both of his most important supplies were running low. He flipped open the chamber on his revolver to and counted the cold, unforgiving cartridges again.
One, two, three, four.
He snapped it shut, and suppressed the urge to flip it open again. He checked his jacket pocket for his trusty flask.
Three quarters empty. Just like it had been yesterday. Just like it would be tomorrow.
He grimaced again and put it away. Nothing had changed, and it didn’t look like it would any time soon.
He continued to trudge along, carrying the loaf of bread and jar of marmalade. It would get him through the week, if he spread it thinly over the dry slices. He continued to walk as he passed by innumerable lamp posts and faceless men and women, each sullenly walking as far apart from each other as possible. He slowly made his way out of the part of town that was glitzy by day, and gloomy by night. As he approached the suburb that was gloomy throughout the entire day, he tightened his grip on the Colt. There were ruffians around here, and he was not someone to be trifled with, even in his current state.
He walked up to his apartment building and opened the door. The mechanical butler, with its muffled clank, was cleaning by the entrance. As he passed by it, he gave a swift kick to its external supports, causing it to whistle and squeal in protest. He moved past, the constant sound of steam rushing through pipes in his ears. He opened the door to his one-room studio and paused, the night enveloping the rest of the sounds in silence. He placed down the meager supplies of food, and moved towards the bed, exhausted. The sheets rushed up to meet him, and he slept.
The next morning, he woke up to the sound of a large explosion. A bus had broken down, and the entire street was filled with steam. Third one this week. It was getting to be such a drag. He pulled himself out of bed and walked right out of the door. It was a cloudless day, the perfect day for nothing to happen. Again.
He started walking towards nowhere, his mind on nothing, when he bumped into a petite dame, who was running hurriedly in the other direction. The world seemed to slow, and she was gone.
He blinked twice, and kept moving. Couldn’t get distracted by dames. A day without business meant a day without rent, and rent was due soon.
He walked into the police station and was immediately assaulted by a cloud of cigar smoke and steam. The smell of burning smokeweed was almost overpowering, and he fingered the trigger on the Colt. The junior deputy of police always made him agitated, and today was no exception. His face still had a dirty, prepubescent mustache, a horrid, half-dead caterpillar that resided on his upper lip. It gesticulated wildly as he spoke, giving the impression that it was making its best efforts to jump off of the young man’s face.
“You again. It’s always you,” he spat. “Why do you keep coming back? We have nothing for you, flatfoot.”
“Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I knew that you had nothing for me,” replied the private eye.
He wanted nothing more than to punch the junior deputy in the face, or perhaps give him a bad case of lead poisoning. He reconsidered as the officer started to say something interesting.
“Actually, now that you mention it, we might have something for you,” the officer drawled. “Some broad walked in here earlier, flustered about some thing or another. She gave an address here….”
The policeman pulled out a small scrap of paper and handed it to the private eye. He grabbed at it hungrily and immediately made a move for the exit.
“You’re welcome…” whined the junior deputy, his voice trailing off as the door slammed in front of him.
The detective grasped the piece of paper with both hands. This innocuous piece of paper could be the end of all of his troubles, at least for now. Funny how something so small and delicate could help him now. Dames were usually easy enough to deal with, and he hoped this one would be no exception.
He crossed the city. Dodging out of the way of lunatics high on the local drug-de-jour, bad drivers in steam-powered automobiles, and poorly constructed automatons. For a technology that had only been discovered within the last 20 years, people were already well on their way to using it incredibly stupidly. As the sun was setting, he made it to a non-descript apartment dug into a hole in the wall. He knocked politely before trying the doorknob, only to discover that it was open.
Inside, the single room was completely, utterly trashed. It looked like a small scale hurricane had moved its way through the apartment. Lying in the middle of the chaos was a woman. He stared at her as the blood oozed slowly from the large gash on her forehead. His blood ran cold, and his trigger finger itched. He stepped outside and pulled out the flask. Seconds later, it was empty. God, he needed that.
He moved back inside and surveyed at the damage. Only the biggest knuckle-dragging gorillas would do this to a room. Clearly they were looking for something, and the woman hadn’t put up much of a fight. He wondered if she had even known they were coming. He sized up the room again. As he gazed at a symbol slashed into the wall, his breath caught in his throat. The city’s biggest crime syndicate had been behind this. This woman was lucky she was alive. He had crossed their paths before, and they had a large price on his head.
He took a closer look at her. A startling realization came over him: this was the same woman that he had run past this morning. He stared at her, wondering what her story was. Why was she here? What did these thugs want with her?
Suddenly he heard a noise. A gruff sound; several men were nearby. He ducked into the shadows and waited. Suddenly he saw them: 4 men, clearly here to finish the job. His finger itched, and he slowly pulled out the revolver.
Several muffled shots rang out in the streets. Crows and pigeons flapped wildly away, while the people pretended not to notice. This seemed like an everyday occurrence, and nobody wanted to stir up trouble with the cops.
He put away the gun, and surveyed the scene. He fished a cigarette out of one of the dead men’s coat, and turned around to light it. Too late, he heard a quiet noise behind him and a knife slid between his ribs. He turned his head. It was the woman. She hadn’t really been injured, sprawled out on the floor. The four men had been cannon-fodder, in order to lull him into a false sense of security.
“Last time we saw you, we said we would never forgive. We would never forget. And here we are, come to collect our dues.”
He said nothing as he fell to the floor.
“We’ve been keeping tabs on you this whole week, and today was the day. The junior deputy gladly took our money to lead you this way, and now here you are. Dead, on the floor.”
Internally, he felt a great sadness well up inside him. There really was no price that a man couldn’t be bought for. The last thing to run through his mind was how beautiful the woman was, and how horrible these people were for tarnishing her.
The woman walked out of the room, smoking his cigarette. She didn’t look back.