Short Story: Portishead: Third

People don't understand why I do this work. It's certainly not the money and there's no real glamor in being a private investigator. Most folks just think I'm a flunked out cop, one of those guys who couldn't cut the mustard on the force so I settled for second best. I always let them think that, they underestimate me and it gives me an edge. I started out as an insurance investigator, hunting down fraud and trying to protect good people from bad things. That's what I thought anyway. Like most jobs the finish wore thin after a few years and I realized more and more that I was protecting the bottom line more than our customers. The underside of every job looks the same, it's covered in blood and gold.

My first freelance case came while I was still working for the company. A good friend of mine had been working in film for a while and something had come up that he needed help with. Why John thought of me, I'll never know. There were a thousand more qualified men out there, ex-spooks, military men. But the letter landed in my hand that afternoon, certified post from London with his name on the top. I read the letter immediately, curious why it would arrive like this. I couldn't remember the last time a paper letter crossed my hands. The letter was straight to the point.

Henry;
I know you've got some experience with these matters. I need your help. Some asshole is trying to blackmail me and I can't get from underneath it. Please, help me find out who this is and get them off of my back. I'm sorry I haven't called but I know they're listening in on my cell and reading my e-mails. I included some money to get you over here in a hurry. Meet me here in the lobby at 4 whenever you get in, I'll be looking for you.

Thanks buddy, I know you'll get me out of this

-John-

Inside I find a cashiers check for $7000 and a card for a hotel in London, Sanctuary House Hotel. What the hell John? Why would I drop everything to help you out? Right, why wouldn't I? This man had pulled me out of some nasty situations when we were younger and he even took a beating that was rightfully mine one night. Some quick arrangements with my boss pushed my vacation up a few weeks and some quickInternet wrangling got me my ticket to Heathrow. I ordered in some food and spent the night looking up things to do in London.

Airports are the same. I don't care what dress you put on them, they all do the same dance. Bored people looking thin and pasted over a fluorescing backdrop. I spent my flight time writing down everything I knew about John and his various "problems". As good of a friend as he was to me, he was kind of a dick. I could see how someone could get a handle on one of his skeletons and give him a good shaking. The shit he'd done, fighting a clown at his nephews birthday, sleeping with his brothers wife, drinking a 30 year old bottle of scotch that his roommate had been saving. You know, that last one doesn't seem that bad, except that it ended up on his roommate. You begin to see my point.

The plane skidded to a halt on a strangely sunny day in London. I checked my GPS to make sure I had landed in the right city. I guess the sun does shine here on occasion. After a half on hour of fighting baggage claim I made my way to the tube station to get to the hotel. I had about an hour and a half to kill before John would meet me in the lobby so I checked into my room and relaxed for a while, pondering the mystery of finding myself in London.

What weirdness. My cell beeped it's alarm and I made my way down to the lobby and waited, looking to the doorway. People came and went on their way, tourists, business types and staff. The time shift started to crawl up my spine and slipped into the aether land of international sleep deprivation. A tap on my shoulder snapped me back into the lobby.

"Mr. Withers? Henry Withers? My name is Rachel Warrington, we'd better have a talk. John has been killed."

Next time: Japan seems to bleed neon.