Writing Prompt: Jack Flint, PI

As Jack watched her walk through his door, he knew she was going to be trouble. She was the kind of woman he used to dream of, the whole package, but he had learned his lesson. He didn’t even wait to hear what she had to say…

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t toss you back out that door.”

She just kept walking, taking the seat across his desk and lighting a cigarette like she owned the place.

“Don’t you wanna hear me out first?” she asked, knowing that he couldn’t resist.

Anyone else and the private eye would have jumped as the chance. It had been too long since his last case and she was the kind to pay in cold hard cash. He should know.

“Lemme guess… Your husband likes to spend long hours in the office and you think he’s fooling around with his secretary, you think maybe you might get some proof so you don’t feel so bad about cheating on him with the gardener…”

“You’re an a*****e, Jack Flint…” she said, showing the first hint of an emotion that wasn’t amusement.

“I am what I am…”

“You’re the most stubborn a*****e I know; that’s the only reason I’m here.”

“You still didn’t answer my question…”

“You think I’d marry a man I didn’t trust?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time…”

Just for a moment, Jack thought he’d gone too far…

“Not twice…” she replied finally.

It was probably a trick of the light, but he would have sworn he saw a tear run down her perfect cheek. He never could stay mad at her long.

“You know my fees.”

“No special rates for an old friend?”

“What can I say? It’s been a hard year…”

* * * * *

The streets were slick with rain when Jack left his office, like all the buildings in New York were weeping over the summer gone too soon, and Jack pulled up the collar of his coat to keep the chill September air out. He had wanted to run, to hide, to tell her where to go, but she was paying him and that was enough for him.

Out on a pier, Jack just stood and waited. It wasn’t long before he saw a nondescript brown file drop onto the wall in front of him.

“Jack… You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No, but that never stopped me before. Not with her…”

“It’s your call, but I thought you had more sense.”

Jack listened to the footsteps as they disappeared into the distance.

“Yeah… So did I…”

The file was everything he expected; vague leads that the NYPD hadn’t even bothered chasing up, witnesses who sang the same song they always did whether they knew anything or not… Jack just decided to do what he always did, start at the bottom and dig down until he hit the truth.

* * * * *

It was a week before he found the man he was after, drugged and unconscious with a gag and blindfold just for good measure. Jack nearly walked straight out again, but he realised he owed it to the guy to take him home, no matter what the story.

“So, you gonna tell your wife what’s going on, or should I?” Jack asked.

They were sitting drinking coffee in a quiet little place out of the way. The way Jack saw it, he might as well get the poor stiff’s version before he went explaining what he had seen to his wife.

“What can I say to her?”

“I don’t know…” Jack admitted, “I guess the truth wouldn’t be too smart.”

There wasn’t much you could say, not after everything that had happened. Instead, they laughed. Jack couldn’t say who started it, but they both knew it was that or admit to themselves what they saw.

“I’ll give you a ride home.” Jack offered, figuring he owed him that much.

It was a quiet trip, up past the respectable places and out where there were still more trees that streets named after them. Neither man felt the need to talk, neither of them knew what to say. When they got to the end, they parted with a handshake and Jack sat in the car and waited.

Jack sat there while his ex-wife came out of her house, he waited quietly as she ran to the man who had stolen her from him. Maybe he should have felt something, said something, but he couldn’t say what. All he knew how to do was sit there at the end of the case, so he sat and he watched.

What else could he do?

Author's Note

The second in a series of articles chronicling my output from writing exercises, this is less about ‘good writing’ and more about working to constraints without over-thinking them.

The aim this time was to finish a 750-word exercise with the words “…and he watched. What else could he do?” to help get these words (paraphrased from a children’s book my daughter loves) out of my wife’s head. I am not sure how much help I was, but it also gave me the chance to get Jack Flint down on the page before he finished driving me crazy. I managed to restrict myself to only 49 words over the target, but I am treating these targets as being more like guidelines than rules or limits.