(An unfinished chapter from a non-existent novel)

It was a dark and nightly storm.

An improbable moon scudded across an unwilling canvas of really dark sky, invoking the deployment of some seriously obscure "dark" synonym, possibly even ebon.

Me, I was working late at the office, trying to make some sense out of this latest puzzler, and getting nowhere slowly. (A three-letter word for 'salamander?' Are they kiddin'? What happened to 'newt?') Outside, beyond the greased grease that scudded against the window of my second-story walkup, rain thundered like lightning. Across the scudded hall, I could hear Mary McMary cackling as she reeled in one jaded, hopeless, burned-out cell phone subscriber after another. And still no word from my rent ticket … my latest client, Howland Payne … about his missing hypnotist.

Another day in Paradise.

In the gutter across the two-lane blackened moist-top, I could still see the dwarf. He was eating another eraser. He makes for a sad tale, this palooka, and he's too far gone to listen to reason. Sad. Just another eraser junkie. Not long ago, this was the strapping, six-foot-four bouncer down at Geronimo's, and life was laid out before him like a life buffet might be laid out, if parts of life came in bowls or steam trays and needed a sneeze guard. Another metaphor I could use might be, oh, a buffet of life-parts, if such things were all part of a full life, or part of a healthy breakfast.

But the dwarf's too far gone. The erasers are winning. At this rate, he'll wipe himself out before his next monthly stimulus check arrives.

But I was still alive. My luck was holding. Yeah, that's right. My luck is normally as rotten as a thing that reminds you of some luck-based thing that might rot, but lately it was holding, like a thing might hold if it got itself compared to rotten luck in one of those mood-setting "pattern of rottenness" descriptions you find in the early-on exposition of these types of stories. As it were.

Stick around. I have more similes.

The luck of a free-lance crossword detective often gets taken for granted, especially by all those get-rich-quick formulaic writers in the best-seller lists, all those imperfect caricature artists who just don't appreciate a real brush with death. Got to have that large spool of luck steadily threading the bobbin of your life (unless I mean treadle, or maybe feed dogs), or you end up just one more splotch on the side of the road, a cold memory, a scudding speck of tepid mold, a pitiful, unwanted, used-up, shot-down, empty shell of a man whose life remains unfulfilled without that elusive three-letter salamander synonym.

Enough introspection. Time for a break. I'm getting a headache; plus, some of my upcoming similes require me to segue into the present tense. I sweep keys and crossword from my tarnished (tainted, tawdry, tallow-stained, turn-of-the-century) desk, grab my hat and coat, and pocket my gat (my gun, my rod, my heater, my widow-maker, my argument ender, my little overdue-library-book equalizer). Out the door and two blocks east, down to the corner of Thirteenth and Lesion, to toss back a few quick ones at Geronimo's place.

As I begin to step inside, I'm nearly Vienna Boys Choir-ed by an outbound umbrella, wielded by a diminutive but stunning Asian woman, storming through me and into the scudding rainstorm. I side-step the self-absorbed petite patron and ease onto a corner stool. Geronimo nods. I nod. He raises one eyebrow and two fingers. I nod again.

Transaction completed.

"Nice stems," I open, arching my head toward the exiting Asian.

"She'll eat your face," Geronimo castles and counters. Checkmate.

A shot glass and unlabeled bottle glide (or possibly scud) to a stop within my reach. I review the label and sniff the cork, or I would have, if I had paid just a little more attention in school, so that I could have ended up in a different kind of story than this one.

Suddenly, another problem. I smell them before I see them. The twins. The Enoff boys, Buzz and Bob, who recently resurfaced after spending ten long at County due to my testimony, and who seem to have taken the whole event a bit personally. They've pulled up to the curb outside, more or less seated on a brace of dead-silent, green-friendly, all-electric highway bikes.

My luck holds. The Enoff brothers waddle blindly into Geronimo's, their Idaho-sized heads locked backwards, waxing priapic, watching the south end of that sultry northbound Asian. They don't see me.

Embracing a nearby metaphor, I grab at the proverbial brass ring and manage to oil into the nearest faux naugahyde booth, subtly arranging the soiled tablecloth around my head like a Hindu turban. The confused couple who were already occupying the booth take a few seconds to regroup, probably weighing candidates from among their list of possible greetings. I grin menacingly, touch my turban, slip them a fiver, and make what may or may not have been a kindly but stern Hindi hand gesture. The young couple prove to be a quick study – the woman winks, dabs ashes on her forehead and molds her fingers in an elegant pranam mudra. Her date faints.

Geronimo, scanning the scenario, reacts. "Uh, just missed him again, boys," he grins. So now I owe him, too. Obviously, dead presidents are gonna flutter tonight.

As clever as ever, the Enoff boys realize Geronimo is speaking to them. Awareness spins the twins, and they stare at the bartender. "Oh, yeah?" quips Bob Enoff, leaping into the lead in this literary le Mans.

Geronimo, eyelid twitching, begins to wipe down the bar. He flicks a short eye at me and leans into diversion. "Close game last week, huh?" he skats, automatically mixing up a couple of Wrangler Wildcats.

(Great. Another fiver.)

Buzz Enoff sneers and attacks a defenseless bar stool. His fingers ruthlessly pinch the offered shot glass, his nostrils flare, he slaps glass to lips, he slurps, he blanches, he belches. He speaks.

"…urp."

Class will tell.

Bob Enoff reaches in his pocket and pulls out a glittering, clinking something and tosses it on the bar. "Found these out front, cocky. Look familiar?" I hear the thing slide across the bar. Geronimo says nothing.

I make eye contact with the girl at my table. "What's he got, and what's your name?" I whisper, as I slowly push her still non-functional date down to the floor.

"Looks like some car keys," mouths the pleasantly attractive girl. "Ophelia. Nice to meet you."

Ophelia smiles and my headache returns. A low moan drifts up from underneath the table.

"Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just gl…"

"Knock it off, Ophelia," I mumble. I pull back the edge of my turban and make a micro-turn toward the bar. Geronimo is holding a Saab key ring, three keys swaying back and forth. For some reason, I wonder, again, what happened to that hypnotist.

"Can't help you there, guys," Geronimo declares, "but I'll hang on to 'em. Somebody'll claim 'em."

Buzz sniffs and rubs a paw across his mouth. "Gimme them keys back, cocky," he glares. "I think I know who they belong."

Coolly, Geronimo keeps swinging the keys, slowly and steadily, in a precise rhythm, a … hypnotic … rhythm. When he speaks, his voice sounds different.

"— Wouldn't you rather — I keep them — wouldn't you rather — leave them — with me — while you — go tell the Fat Man — his accountant — forgot the car keys —"

The twins are transfixed. I am amazed. Ophelia rubs her eyes. Her date moans. I put my foot in his mouth. Geronimo slowly lowers the keys to the bar.

"Bye-bye, boys," he intones.

Buzz and Bob Enoff rise like lumpy puppets, turn away, and lumber oddly, metrically out into the night.

When the door closes behind them, I jump up, peck Ophelia on the cheek, shove my turban in her date's mouth, and leap scuddingly to the bar.

"Where the heck did you learn that?"

Geronimo smiles and pours a couple shots. He nails one and hands me the other. "You pick up a lot of tricks in this trade," he says. "Payne's hypnotist was a little short of ready cash once, and we … worked something out."

"Impressive," I reply, "very impressive. Useful. Utile. Convenient. Expedient. Handy. Hey, you don't happen to know a three-letter word for 'salamander,' do ya?"

Geronimo looks at me closely, as if I might suddenly start biting things.

"Eft."

"Thanks, G. Hey, wait a minute. You said 'the accountant forgot the car keys.' What accountant forgot the car keys?"

"That accountant," Geronimo responds, pointing behind me. I turn to look and see nothing. Well, nothing but Ophelia winking at me, which does nothing to help my headache.

"Geronimo," I ask, "you don't mean that illegal-in-several-states little dumpling is an accountant, do you?"

"No," he says, "but her date, the prone guy presently gargling with my tablecloth, is."

Hmm, I think. No wonder he fainted. A total stranger handing an accountant five bucks.

I start to pursue this twist when I feel something at my side. Turning, I see Ophelia, chest flashing, eyes heaving, pressing a business card into my palm. "Call me," she breathes. "We should talk."

I look at the card:  Pinner & Lever Confectioners — Ophelia Payne, Junior Icer.

PAYNE!?!

(Stay tuned for next week's episode! Though probably not!)