Larry Jones just got paid $500 to stalk himself.
Writer’s Prompt
The neon sign outside my office buzzed like a caffeinated hornet, casting a sickly pink glow over my scotch
—which was mostly lukewarm tap water. Being a private eye in this town means you’re either starving or lying. Today, I was doing both.
Arthur Pringle sat across from me, sweating through a silk suit that cost more than my car. “I think my wife is cheating, Jones,” he wheezed. “Find out who the guy is. I want names. I want photos.”
I swallowed hard. I knew the guy. I saw him every morning in the mirror, usually trying to figure out how to get lipstick out of a collar.
“Domestic cases are messy, Artie,” I said, my voice dropping an octave into a gravelly noir baritone. “You sure you want to open this closet? Might be skeletons.”
“I want the truth,” he slammed a stack of hundreds on the desk.
That night, I ‘tailed’ his wife, Sheila, to our usual spot—The Velvet Moat. She looked like a million bucks and acted like she didn’t have a dime of it. I sat in the shadows, wearing a fedora low enough to blind myself.
“Larry, you’re wearing two different shoes,” Sheila whispered, sliding into the booth.
“It’s a disguise,” I hissed. “Your husband hired me to find your lover. Which is me. I’m literally paying for this steak with his ‘adultery down payment.'”
She laughed, a sound like silver coins hitting pavement. “So, what are you going to tell him?”
I looked at the camera in my lap. I could take a blurry photo of a fire hydrant and tell him it’s a guy named ‘Fingers’ McGee. Or I could tell him the truth and hope his aim was as bad as his taste in ties. Suddenly, the door kicked open. Arthur stood there, flanked by a guy who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast.
I didn’t just sweat; I leaked. The flashbulb on my camera went off by accident, illuminating the rage on Arthur’s face and Sheila’s impeccable, slightly bored eyeliner.
“Jones?” Arthur bellowed, his voice echoing over the smooth jazz. “What are you doing with my wife? And why are you wearing a bowling shoe and a wingtip?”
I stood up, my knees knocking a rhythm that could’ve backed the drummer on stage. I cleared my throat, summoning every ounce of cinematic grit I didn’t actually possess.
“Artie! Glad you’re here,” I barked, pointing the camera at him like a weapon. “I’ve been… undercover. Deep undercover. So deep I almost forgot who I was. I tracked the suspect here, but he’s a master of disguise. He looked exactly like me from the back. A real ‘doppelganger’ situation.”
Arthur blinked, his fists still clenched. “You’re sitting in a booth. Sharing a Chateaubriand. With my wife.”
“Standard P.I. procedure, Artie,” I said, sweating through my cheap polyester tie. “I had to intercept the target. I’m actually—believe it or not—protecting Sheila from the real scoundrel. He’s… he’s right behind you!”
As Arthur turned his head, I grabbed Sheila’s hand. I had two choices: I could make a break for the kitchen and live the rest of my life as a short-order cook in New Jersey, or I could double down on the lie and try to convince Arthur that he actually owed me a bonus for “emotional distress.”
Arthur turned back, realizing there was no one behind him. His face turned a shade of purple that matched the neon sign outside. He took a step forward, and the brick-eating henchman cracked his knuckles.
Does Larry make a dash for the alleyway, or does he manage to convince Arthur that the “real lover” is actually the henchman? How would you write Larry’s final, desperate plea to save his skin?
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