It was all the down time that annoyed Quentin. It was not like he was a road-worker with a shovel that needed propping, nor a bureaucrat with paperwork that needed shuffling. He was a Private Investigator and he demanded a murder that needed solving, a missing person that needed finding, a buxom blonde that needed seducing.
He took another drag on his no-name cigarette, downed the dregs of his whiskey sour, patted his rear pocket and took off, down the colonnade, behind the 378 just pulling into the Eddie Avenue stop and over to his serviced room.
As he spun his hat onto the stand, he noted the flashing red light on his landline. With a deft flick, as he eased himself out of his leather jacket,he started the tape.
‘Quentin, come quickly. I need ... aarrrgggghhhhh ... ‘
Yes, finally! A smile cleft Quentin’s face in two. Success beckons.