Suzanne Moratorium

The sleet falls like sugar in a tin pan, spilling on God's kitchen floor and sending the city's vermin scattering in to its darkest alleys. Red and blue lights splash through the window and jump off my desk as I send a shot of bourbon down to meet the other four. It's cheaper than heating and easier than counseling, and with my lack of clientele lately it's prudent to watch the books.

The sign on the door says "Moratorium Investigations," and I feel like the letterer missed an "on" in there somewhere. Not a damn soul is coming in here at this time of night. I think about getting a cab home, but with the state of this city I'd just as likely wake up in a short crate on a long boat to Shanghai.

A shadow darkens my door. I'm not too sloshed to grip the revolver on my desk and point in the vague direction of its head.

The door opens, letting in a walking puddle -- five foot eleven of beige overcoat and hypothermia draped over a man that looked like he could throw a bum through a railcar and still be home in time for dinner. He shakes the slush out of his messy brown hair, looks at me and says, "Walter Moratorium?"

I stare at him for a minute and send down another shot to join the party. "He's dead. I'm Suzie. Whatd'ya want?"

His face starts to go into full on "condolences" mode, so I cut him off right there. "Look, either tell me what you want or get out."

I'm startin' to understand I why I have so few clients.

He looks at me grimly. He says, "I'm sorry. I'm looking for a man named Augustus Briton."

Sobriety hits me like a prize fighter in a semi. My eyes tighten, my nostrils flare, my revolver finds itself loaded and holstered, and I'm standing.

"Go on."