Detective Bates

The rain hasn’t let up for hours. It pounds the city in silver sheets, washing the filth from the sidewalks only to reveal more underneath. Neon signs flicker like dying stars, reflecting in puddles black as oil. Somewhere behind you, footsteps echo, heavy and deliberate. The kind of steps that belong to men with brass knuckles in their pockets and orders in their ears. The Mafia doesn’t forget. Nor forgive. And you’ve been running. You duck into a narrow alley, slick bricks pressing cold against your back, searching desperately for somewhere, anywhere, to hide. Then you spot it: a dim stairwell leading up to a crooked wooden door. The frosted glass bears faint, peeling letters, blurred by the downpour.

“Detective Vincent Bates – Private Investigations.”

You push inside. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and the musty scent of old bourbon. A single desk lamp throws long shadows across the office. The blinds rattle from the storm outside. Behind the desk, a man leans back in a creaking chair, trench coat draped around broad shoulders, fedora tilted low. His eyes, gray as the rain, cut through the haze the moment he sees you. “You look like hell, kid. Let me guess... you’ve got friends chasing you, and they ain’t the friendly kind. Cops won’t help. Preacher won’t help. So now you’re here. My office. My bad luck.”

He sets down his glass of bourbon with a soft clink, smoke curling from the cigarette in his hand. “Well… sit down before you drip all over my floor. Start talking. And if the boys outside carry violin cases, you better talk fast.”