Mike Peeps thought he was running a brilliant scam—until his mark offered him a job he couldn’t refuse and a secret he couldn’t escape.
The Retainer of Regret
The frosted glass on Mike’s door still smelled of fresh adhesive. “Mike Peeps: Private Investigator.” It sounded like a heavy-hitter. In reality, Mike’s only “investigation” so far involved tracking down why his toaster kept tripping the breaker.
Hunger is a hell of a motivator. Mike drove his rusted sedan into Oak Crest—a neighborhood where the lawns were manicured with surgical precision and the secrets were buried under heated pools. He picked the house with the most columns.
A woman answered. She was draped in silk and holding a martini glass like a weapon.
“Ma’am,” Mike began, tilting his fedora to hide a grease stain. “I’m Mike Peeps. I’ll give it to you straight: your husband hired a guy to tail you. A real pro. But I’ve got a professional grudge against the guy, and I’m offering a ‘Counter-Intelligence Special.’ For half his rate, I’ll tail him and see if he’s the one actually stepping out.”
The woman didn’t gasp. She didn’t faint. She took a slow, methodical sip of her drink, her eyes narrowing into cold slits of sapphire.
“How much did he pay you, Mr. Peeps?” she asked, her voice like velvet wrapped around a razor blade.
“I… well, I can’t disclose his—”
“I’ll double it,” she snapped. “But not to tail him. My husband is currently ‘fishing’ in the Keys. Or so he says. I want you to go to the basement right now. There’s a rug that needs moving, and a heavy trunk that needs to disappear before he gets back tonight.”
She handed him a stack of hundreds and a heavy brass key. As Mike headed toward the basement door, he heard the faint, rhythmic thump-thump of something hitting wood from behind the oak panels.
Now it’s your turn: Does Mike take the money and run, or does he find something in that basement that makes a .38 Special look like a toy?
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