In the Arms of Morpheus

Fresh rain pooled in the broken crevasse of the old brick walkway. The morning doves sang their song above from the newly established power lines. In the distant one of the many trollies of the city squelched out their miserable horn. The bustle of the city's streets echoed down the thin corridor. Though the sun was out, positioning of buildings shadowed the small brass door, the only true illumination would beam from the neon glow of an “open” sign. On the door, neatly pressed in, was the nameplate: J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye.

The small soft hand of a woman would usher the door open. On the corner of the door frame, as always, the small brass bell would chime four times, twice for opening, twice for closing. The first room was empty, pristine, and well kept. A large oak desk postured itself as the room's attention grab, idling right in front of a wooden door, the glass-paneled window in this door had the same inscription as the entrance: J. EDWARD LIVEON, PRIVATE EYE.

With a soft clunk, the madam who had just entered placed a leather-clad handbag upon the proud oak desk. Pulling out the humble four-legged chair, conventional hidden beneath the desk, she'd plop herself in place and begin softly humming. A nail file seeming to appear out of thin air as she became aloof from any task set out previously for her.

The small bell would chime. Four times twice for opening, twice for closing. A smooth voice would speak out into the dimly lit room. "Hey there, y'minx, autcha got some work to be handle'n?"

Without looking up the blonde dame would spit back, "Ay, dont'cha got some mysteries to be solving Eddieboy?"

With a chuckle like velvet, J. Edward Liveon, private eye, would remove his slick black fedora. A conveniently placed coat rack in the corner of the small dimly lit office would become it's new home. Accompanied shortly by a long brown cloth trench coat, and a red and black scarf. Edward would respond, now with a hint of critical thinking to his voice, "there's concern on the tram Sallie, word is there's someone out there butting heads with the Moriad boys on south dock. Storm's a-brew'n lass. Let's try getting ahead of it."

Sallie would shake her head softly. Not looking up, as she changed out the nail file for a small hand mirror. Seeming to be fully distracted by puckering her ruby red lips in the mirror. As if gently placed Sallie was a natural beauty, her face had the symmetry of an angel, as short curly blonde hair cascaded the edges of her face, and sharp blue eyes that didn't miss a thing. Though naturally pale, she'd clearly added a lighter foundation, giving her face a shiny white gloss, this was clearly to bring attention to her bright red lips, and a single dimpled mole on the left of her face. "You say we, like I'm goin'to run my pretty lil'legs down them docks chasing baddies. I'll watch the phone, try not to get shot Eddie."

With a gruff chuckle, the chiseled-faced man would walk around the gallant oak desk and into the back office. This office was conflicting with Sallie’s entry office. Papers stacked up, somewhat neatly, along the floors, space enough for the 6’ man to walk through was laid out; moving through the path with the towering stacks of paper caressing his slacks like soft blades of grass, towards a homely desk centered in the room. With a click, an old brass lamp would flicker to life revealing more chaos than order. Space for a single wooden chair sat opposite across the desk from a similar sad wooden chair. The desk was perhaps the cleanest space in the room. A single whisky glass cherished its space on the right side of the cheaply made surface of the desk, the brown residue from a previous night's drink still stagnant on its base. Scanning across the desk in the very center, pushed almost to the brink of falling, was a typewriter, a half-written report sticking out, with the letter ‘e’ being repeated for the final 18 lines. Sitting in front of the typewriter was a yellowing novel. In bold black letters “Lord of the Flies by William Golding” proudly displayed itself in the form of a clearly well-loved and overread novel. Continuing from right to left, sitting stagnant on the left side of the desk was the glistening metal handgun. The proud Colt-1911 sat empty, its unloaded clip crisping the very left edge of the desk as if it had toyed with jumping many times before. In all four corners of the squat office sat a filing cabinet. They were nearly impossible to get to thanks for the disarrayed piles of papers, books, and manilla folders. J. Edward Liveon would shuffle around the small desk and situate himself on the backside of the desk, facing the now closed glass-windowed door. With a sigh, and pulling a drawer hidden beneath the underbelly of the wood a single flask would emerge, being gripped softly in calloused, tough hands. Metal would clink to glass as the man poured himself a single shot of the milky brown substance. At a leisurely pace, Edward closed the metal flask, reopened the hidden drawer on the underbelly of the desk, and put the flask back into its hiding spot. Following the hiding of the flask he would move in a single motion, the Private Eye, would grab his shot of hooch and down it. Reacting to the disgusting substance with a nauseated look, it was clear that he did not drink for the flavor of the alcohol but rather for the way it seemed to help numb him to the tedious pace of his days.

Painstakingly the man would open one of the two, not hidden drawers, on the desk. As the left drawer screeched open Edward’s face twisted. Pulling out a trusty KA-BAR, still, in its sheath, it was clear that the knife haunted the man more than the 1911, the gun holster on the weapon belt sat empty, extra 9mm rounds decorated the bullet loops that ran around the entirety of the leather belt. Setting the belt down, the blade within its sheath would thud softly atop the old copy of Lord of the Flies. Reaching back into the drawer Edward would pull out a box of 9mm rounds along with an extra clip for the pristine 1911. Loading both clips, the box would shuffle, as the metal rounds moved into the spaces that once held their siblings, whilst being placed softly back within the left drawer. With a screech, the drawer would shut.

Standing, the old lamp would fully illuminate the man's face. Not attractive, he was also not hideous; plain would best fit his description. Well, plain and unkempt, soft hairs would be protruding around his face giving the man a nasty five o'clock shadow. His lips were chapped, and a small scar would hug the right corner of his mouth, making him appear to have a smirk at all times. Diligent brown eyes scoured the room, as sun marks nestled their ways softly along his cheekbones. Greasy brown hair fell aloft his forehead, naturally straight it was clear that he wore his fedora more than he went without it, as a permanent bad hair day seemed to be tamed to the cloth hats' normal resting grounds. Though he still had both ears a small chip was missing from the heux at the very top of his right. The cartilage around the area scarred up almost as if it had been cauterized closed. As Edward shifted he would loop the weapon belt through the casually placed cloth trouser loops. Though a very unshelved man he was still well dressed, straight black slacks ended pristinely at a pair of black penny-loafers, a penny sitting gently acute in their delicate penny slots on each foot. Moving up the body the man had a freshly tailored white button-down tucked gently within his slacks, a plain cloth vest decorated his torso, the black and blue plaid design kept the matching facade displayed by the loafers and slacks. A dull Rolex adorned the man's left arm.

Holstering the 1911 firmly in his weapon belt, after loading one clip in, Edward would place the second clip within a small pocket hidden discreetly on his vest. Shuffling around the desk once again, and through the maze of books and papers the man would leave the office; his old brass lamp still illuminating. As the door shuts the brass lamp’s light would flicker softly, bygone to cast its color upon an old map of the city. Pins littered the map and pictures of men coupled in the oddest spots. News clippings expanded out past the map into the darker corners on the wall. Strings would connect from pin to pin, and random lines would be drawn from one picture to another, or to a news clipping. The messy web of crime that overshadowed the scaling metropolis all mapped out on a wall, in the backroom, of a hole-in-the-wall Private Eye’s office, down a forgotten alley, hidden by the bustle of a busy street.

The four chimes would sound. Twice for the door opening, twice for the door closing. A soft shuffle could be heard in the front room. Slowly the glass-paned white door creaked open. Stepping softly through the piles the boutique-like Sallie would glide carefully into the room. With a soft click, the brass lamp would turn off, leaving the blonde-dame to move back to the front room in near darkness. Just as it had opened softly, the door would close softly behind her, as she settled herself in at the proud oak desk, and began to work.

After what would happen to be several hours of silence, the shrill scream of a telephone would disrupt the silence which had overtaken the office. “J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, this is Sallie, what can we look into for ya?” Red lips would press thinly together as the bright blue eyes didn’t miss a thing. With pen and notepad, Sallie would record down every word from the other side of the phone. Ripping the paper from the notepad the lass would set the note gently on a pile of other notes. Standing elegantly, after the phone call, she would stride across the room to a discreetly placed bookshelf. Pulling from it a phonebook, and what appeared to be a small journal.

With a huff, she would set both works of literature down before opening the journal. Names, locations, dates, information upon information filled the pages. It was clearly a profiling journal, as the soft pale hands turned the corners lightly until she came to a page with the name “Moriad” written on the top. From there she would go through several more pages, scanning what she needed from the book. Pressing her thin finger down on the name of a business the dame would open the large phonebook and begin shuffling through those pages as well. Until she came to the M’s, at which point her sharp optics began to glance from book to book trying to match the name of the business. With a soft chuckle, she would tap a number on the book, pick up the plain rotary phone that sat comfortably on a side table beside her desk, and dial in a number. After several rings, a gruff voice would pick up on the other line.

“Moraid’s shipping and shiftings, Igor here, what do’ya want.”