The rain was coming down like nails on a tin roof when she walked into my office. She wasn’t the kind of dame you forget—tall, with legs that didn’t quit and eyes that could cut glass. She wore a black trench coat that clung to her like a second skin, and her red lips were curled into a smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Jack Marlowe,” she said, her voice smooth as bourbon. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Good things, I hope,” I said, leaning back in my chair. The office was small, just a desk, a couple of chairs, and a window that looked out onto the neon-lit streets of the city. The rain streaked the glass, turning the lights into a blur of color.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out a photograph. She slid it across the desk to me. It was a picture of a man in a priest’s collar, his face gaunt, his eyes haunted.
“His name is Father Michael,” she said. “He’s missing. I need you to find him.”
I picked up the photo and studied it. “You his sister?”
She shook her head. “I’m his… friend. He’s in trouble, Marlowe. The kind of trouble that gets people killed.”
I tossed the photo back onto the desk. “Why come to me? Why not the cops?”
She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto mine. “Because the cops can’t help him. And because I heard you’re the kind of man who doesn’t back down from a fight.”
I grinned. “You heard right.”
---
Samantha Blackthorne was waiting for me outside the office, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips. She was wearing a leather jacket and a pair of jeans that fit her like they were painted on. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her eyes were sharp, always scanning, always watching.
“Who’s the dame?” she asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“Client,” I said. “Missing priest. She says he’s in trouble.”
Samantha raised an eyebrow. “A priest? What kind of trouble?”
“The kind that gets people killed.”
She smirked. “Sounds like our kind of trouble.”
We hit the streets, starting with the last place Father Michael was seen—a rundown church on the edge of town. The place was dark, the windows boarded up, the door hanging off its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of mildew and decay.
“Charming,” Samantha said, stepping over a pile of broken pews. “You think he’s hiding out here?”
“Doubt it,” I said, shining my flashlight around the room. “But maybe he left something behind.”
We searched the place, finding nothing but dust and cobwebs. Then, in the back room, we found it—a small wooden box, hidden under a loose floorboard. Inside was a ledger, filled with names and numbers.
“What the hell is this?” Samantha asked, flipping through the pages.
“Blackmail,” I said. “Looks like Father Michael had a side hustle.”
She whistled. “A priest with a ledger full of dirty secrets. This just got interesting.”
---
The names in the ledger were big—politicians, mob bosses, cops on the take. Whoever had Father Michael, they wanted that ledger bad. And if we didn’t find him first, he was as good as dead.
We started with the first name on the list—a city councilman named Richard Grayson. His office was in a high-rise downtown, all glass and steel. We walked in like we owned the place, Samantha flashing a smile at the receptionist while I kept my hand on the .38 in my coat pocket.
Grayson was in his office, sitting behind a desk that cost more than my car. He looked up when we walked in, his face pale, his hands shaking.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Friends of Father Michael,” I said, tossing the ledger onto his desk. “We’re looking for him. You know where he is?”
Grayson’s eyes widened as he flipped through the ledger. “I… I don’t know anything about this.”
“Bull,” Samantha said, leaning on his desk. “Your name’s in there, Grayson. You’re dirty. And if you don’t start talking, we’ll make sure everyone knows it.”
He cracked faster than an egg. “There’s a warehouse on the docks,” he said. “They’re holding him there. But you don’t understand—they’ll kill you if you go there.”
I grinned. “Let ‘em try.”
---
The warehouse was a crumbling monstrosity on the edge of the harbor, surrounded by chain-link fences and barbed wire. The rain was still coming down, turning the ground into a muddy mess. We moved in quiet, sticking to the shadows, our guns drawn.
Inside, the place was dark, the only light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Father Michael was tied to a chair in the middle of the room, his face bruised, his clothes torn. Standing over him was a man in a suit, his back to us.
“Freeze!” I shouted, stepping into the light.
The man turned, and I saw his face—it was the same face from the photograph. Father Michael.
“What the hell?” Samantha said, her gun trained on him.
Father Michael smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said.
Then the lights went out.
---
The next few minutes were a blur of gunfire and fists. I dove for cover, firing blindly into the darkness. Samantha was somewhere to my left, her voice sharp as she shouted directions. Then, suddenly, the lights came back on.
Father Michael was gone. So was the ledger.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, holstering my gun.
Samantha walked over, her face grim. “We were played, Jack. That dame who hired us—she was working with him.”
I nodded. “Yeah. And now they’ve got the ledger.”
She smirked. “Not exactly.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. It was the ledger.
“I made a copy,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “Figured it might come in handy.”
I laughed. “You’re something else, you know that?”
She shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
---
We left the warehouse, the rain still pouring down. The city was alive with neon and shadows, a place where nothing was ever what it seemed. But that was okay. We were used to it.
“So,” Samantha said as we walked back to the car. “What now?”
I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “Now we use that ledger to clean up this town. Starting with Father Michael.”
She grinned. “I like the way you think, Marlowe.”
I grinned back. “Yeah. Me too.”
And with that, we disappeared into the night, two private eyes in a city full of lies, ready to take on whatever came next. Because in this town, the only thing harder than the truth was the people who tried to hide it.
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