Private eye Stories

San Francisco, 1935. x Green. She absolutely hated the colour green with a passion. Yet everywhere she turned at the funeral, she saw green. Green wreaths, green buttonholes, green hats. Green for Ireland. Ironically, her late husband, Jack 'Piggy' Malone, wasn't even Irish. You had to go back generations to trace that connection. No, Piggy was as American as apple pie. He had loved watching Pop Warner's Stanford Cardinal...

I saw her enter the office as if through a cloud of smoke. She moved towards my desk, a vague spectral figure in burgundy, her heels clicking against the cheap tiles, and I decided it was probably best to extinguish my cigarette. The smoke dissipated. “These things will kill you,” she said, her lush voice somehow familiar. She was very short, but her cold blue eyes held authority. She had the austere, wavy hairstyle of a...

San Francisco, 1940. There was no question it was her. At first glance, I thought her to be no more than thirty-five, but the more I looked the more uncertain I was. One sure thing was that she was all woman. A woman who was glad to be female in every sense. This woman would never be seen in jeans or sweaters or flat heels. Only the most elegant outfits at all times would suffice. And the most feminine. She was just my ty...

I want to be your ‘Bogey’ man Wry wisecracks and chiseled chin I want to be your ‘Bogey’ man Rye whiskey and boyish grin. I could be your private eye And you, Bacall in satin gown I could be your rugged guy From down the seedy end of town. Call me up in dead of night Say you can’t sleep, we have to talk You heard a noise, gave you a fright "So come on down, the door ain’t locked." As moonlight plays upon your hair I slip...