The further adventures of Jack Noir, PI – “Sometimes you gotta use your brains, sometimes you gotta use your gun…” – as far as he’s gone, so far.
Should I restart @JackNoirPI?
Vera was a tough bird. Tougher than me that one time, when I was staring into the business. And she would have taken a bullet for Tom too.
Vera’s door was cracked open. A man’s voice, snapping. Her gasp. I stopped, instantly noon. Grabbed the gun out of my suit.
I trotted up the walk. Pressed my back flat against the doorjamb opposite its opening. I raised a fist, rapped the door, it jerked open.
A thug swore. A gun cracked, a burst of wood splintered on the doorframe – whistling heat and gunpowder tang tried to slap my face.
Vera screamed. Another shot, wild, pounded into the wall above the door, plaster dust flew. I heard the goon scramble away toward the back.
I twisted, slipped around the door, gun up. Vera was sprawled on her living room carpet. In back, the thug grunted, a window squealed open.
I swore, my breathing sharp, adrenalin socking my gut. I shut the window, keeping out the summer breeze. Vera was in dutch, alright. And me.
“So you know?” I asked. Her mouth tightened. “You mean what the gink told me’s true?” I looked at the Philco hulking in a corner. “Yeah.”
“Jesus, Jack!” She keened like a siren. The kind of cry you’ll remember thirty years later. Sobbing, she collapsed into me.
After she exhausted herself, I got a washcloth and a steak. She was too tired and shaken even to wince. I would ask about the goon later.
Yeah, I still had feelings for her. Different now, softer maybe. Despite her moxie, I could tell she needed being taken care of right now…