"Francis" Vester, Private Eye | Part 1

- Prompt 3 of 30 -

Vester closed the door to Danny’s Place and turned his collar up against the chill night air. A bust of a trip, looking there, but then he’d known it would be. No new leads and nobody talking was a pattern, and Vester knew what it meant. Hell, Mousy probably knew it too. But love blinds people. Sweet kid, that brunette, He mused. Whatever her name was. He wondered what she saw in this Eddie fellow. Shame to take her money under the circumstances. But hope blinds people too, and if she wanted to pay him to look – Well, that was the job, wasn’t it?

- start - 

If there was one thing he was good at, if there was one thing that he was known for above all else, it was this: “Mr. Vester is good at lookin’.” They always called him that, despite his many attempts to dissuade. It was the same with every dame - every single beautiful bombshell that came into his office lookin’ for work. They’d always burst through the door, as if their missing person might in fact be sharin’ a drink with him.

After collectin’ themselves, they’d always strut their way to his desk. Mind you, good ol’ Vester had yet to say a word to them - he knew how to play the game (enjoying the show was a plus). They’d thrust the picture of the mark down on his table - always over the sudoku he was workin’ (He’d been “nearly done” for over a year now) - and the conversation would, without fail, proceed as follows:

“Mr. Vester.” The dame would say, in a voice that came out like wisps of smoke. It was enough to make every hair on a man’s neck stand as upright as a piano.

“Call me Francis.” He’d say, never using his real name. For all the digging he did in folks’ lives - he played his own cards awfully close to his chest. “Defense mechanism” his bureau-ordered therapist had called it.

“Okay, Mr. Francis Vester.” They’d linger on the words like the last drag of a cigarette. “Private eye…”

“Just Francis’ll do,” He’d put out the cigarette he would always just finished. “and what brings you here, miss…?”

It didn’t matter what they’d say, he was never good with their names. Could remember every detail about them: How they talked, how they moved, the smell of their perfume - Even the way they liked their eggs the morning after - but their name would forever remain a mystery.

He’d offer them a drink, and they’d take it - spirits were a good way to jog the memory. Didn’t hurt that most folks would share a lot more information when they had some liquid motivation.

Then they’d get to talking about the job. Vester did mostly missing persons - He had written the book on finding chumps during his time at the Bureau, and word had spread once he made the move into the private sector. He’d ask his newfound client the basics: “Where’d’ya last see ‘im?” “He messed up with anything bad?” “Do you really wanna find this guy?”. Vester attributed that last one to the start of his second, and third marriages. (Same woman - Redheads always held a power over him.)

The questions were more for them than anything - make them feel like they’d contributed to the case. It was always important that a client hold out hope - if hope is lost so is your money. His first marriage had taught him that.

After walking the vixens out of his office and down the back alley that held both his small office and Gino’s Sezchuan Grill (best joint in this town if you asked Vester…), He’d bid them goodbye with the offer of a smoke. After they got around the corner the real work would begin.

Here’s the thing. If a tall, gruff-looking man stands on the corner of two streets for long enough - lookin’ like he might start a fight with the local band of sewer rats that looked at him funny - eventually some LEOs will come askin’ some questions. Vester made a point of makin’ sure that every cop in the 4th Borough knew who he was. They may not have liked him (he had a habit of flirting with their wives), but they sure as hell knew ‘im.

His first lead usually came from pressin’ whoever showed for anything they knew about the guy. Most folk’s in this town had some form of rap sheet, which made it a lot easier to start lookin’.

With Mousy’s kid, nothing.

As far as the local cops knew, this chump hadn’t ever even jaywalked. Model citizen, this guy. Some might think that commendable. But for Vester, all he could see was a field of red flags. When good folk start going missing - somethin’ bad is comin’. 

But Vester couldn’t stop lookin’. Not for any sake of Mousy’s mind you - it was just in his nature. As aforementioned, the man was good at lookin’.

Or rather, his eyes were good at noticin’. Always had been. He could tell you what color pen the lady next to him at the bank was using yesterday. It was blue (That was cheating, all the pens at the bank are blue). Mind you, he couldn’t remember how much the rent on his rat-infested moldy ceiling’d office was - but he could give you a description of every woman that had every walked through that barely attached door.

But he could not find Eddie. The boy hadn’t tucked tail and ran - he had checked the apartment and found nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t make an enemy of the Mob - He had just used up his last favor with Danny Nine Fingers to close that lead. Couldn’t have been dead - the Bureau would have found him faster than anybody were that the case.

No matter how hard he looked, Vester’s eyes weren’t noticin’ shit.

So here he was, standing on the corner of 3rd and cognitive dissonance. Vester had a gut feeling, and his gut and never been wrong. The unfortunate situation, as it were, was that Vester’s gut was sayin’ somethin’ that he didn’t like to hear.

He was a man of reason, dammit! It didn’t matter that Mousy had a strange pendant hangin’ from her neck, or a tattoo of somethin’ remarkably terrifying on her left ankle. The book in Eddie’s apartment was nothin’ but gibberish meant to make people feel special. There weren’t no thing as magic. Vester wouldn’t be caught dead going to that shack up on First Hill and sure as hell wasn’t going to interview that woman who made that eyesore her home!

He’d simply go to Mousy and admit defeat. Tell her that for the first time since time immemorial, Mr. “Francis” Vester, Private Investigator First Class could not find a missing person…

He hailed a cab, and got in. The clock read 15 minutes to midnight, just enough time to get there.

“Where’ya wanna go?”

Vester sighed, and let the moment linger. He didn’t take losing well.

“First Hill,”

“Your loss,” The cabby replied.

Vester knew, as he was walking up the ragged trail that lead the way to the dilapidated shack, that he was supposed to show up at midnight. He might’ve hated the very idea of magic - avoided any interaction with the occult as though it were the plague - but even he knew that if you wanted audience with a witch, you had to knock on her door at exactly midnight.

He almost turned around at that thought. Instead he lit another cigarette (his fourth since he got in the cab), and continued up the steps - trying not to break an ankle.

Wouldn’t that be apropos? He chuckled. Break my ankle and be nursed back to health by some voodoo speakin’ Witch.

Yet, this was the path his eyes were showing. He knew it the instant he watched Mousy walk through the door - She was different.

It wasn’t just the aesthetic. 99% of his clients feel into two categories: High-Class Lush or Concerned House-wife.

He didn’t know what to call it, but Mousy was on whole different level. Brunette, but when you looked closer you could see streaks of black underneath the top layer. Pale white face, with a generous application of eyeliner. Deep, crimson lips. Two piercings adorned her lower lip (She had called them “snake bites”). She wore nothing but a black slip and combat boots - Vester had been so caught off guard he had given her his real name.

He had hoped that the look meant nothing - a rebellion against a rich father maybe, but no. His eyes were never wrong - Mousy (She wiggled her nose when she smelled the whiskey, and Vester would never recover.), was a “Witch”.

Vester knew that pressin’ Mousy for anything more than he had would be a waste. The girl was smart, and hadn’t been hiding the fact that she plain did not know where Eddie had gone. He also knew that the only way he would get another lead was to talk to another Witch.

Since Mousy was out of the question, Vester only had one more option to turn to. He’d accepted the job. If that meant swallowing his pride, abandoning all reason, and facing almost certain death in the face - that is what he had to do.

Which is why he was now standing on the porch of this run-down shack, looking at his watch to make sure the timing is exactly right.

You better not be scumming it up with some roundheel, Eddie. Vester marked the time, and knocked three times.

The door opened after the first two.

“The Witching Hour, Vester?” The woman who spoke leaned against the now open door. “You know you can come visit me at anytime.”

“You usin’ that Power on me, Gloria?” Vester spat. Composure nowhere to be found. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I been watchin’ you stand like a buffoon outside my door for the past three minutes, you dingus.”

Vester could not muster a reply.

“Quit fussin’ and come along.” The woman swung the door wide and walked deeper into the shack.

His body moved, ignoring the protests of his brain. He found himself sitting, in a chair that was comfortable in a eerily familiar way. He was handed a cup of tea, his favorite.

Gloria sat down in a chair across from him. She was the first to speak.

“To what do I owe this visit, dear husband?”

- end -