The tiny storefront hadn't needed much; a coat of paint, a small reception area partitioned off from a larger space that housed a decent-sized desk. There was a file cabinet behind, and two chairs before that desk, affording comfortable seating to the distraught folk that came here seeking help. Spillane Investigations was a joint effort, but no one but the two that operated it knew that. This was the 1930's, after all, and people were hesitant when they saw any woman doing anything other than secretarial or reception work when they walked into such a place.

As the sign-hanger out front finished up and came in for the agreed-upon wage, Abbey reached inside the petty-cash box, which was basically her purse at this point, and handed over ten dollars. The glint that came off of her left ring finger caused her to look again, and the thought passed through her mind that she'd never get used to the feel and look of being married. 

It had only been a week, but it had been a fantastic one. Preferring to save their money for the agency rather than spend it all on an extravagant wedding or frivolous honeymoon, the two had bounded down to the courthouse and come out twenty minutes later, all smiles. That afternoon had been spent moving out Abbey's grudging roommate, Sarah...always a bridesmaid, never a bride. The rest of the week was spent testing various surfaces and pieces of furniture throughout the apartment.

"Michael, come look! It's all done!" She called out, opening the front door and holding up a hand to the blinding Vegas sunlight. Stepping through, she made an about-face and looked at the painted wooden sign that was still swaying a bit from the installation. They'd pored over pages of various scripts inside of books, trying to find just the right mix of classy and businesslike, professional yet affordable. A shadow fell across the brick and mortar next to hers, and she both saw and felt the slender-fingered hand that slipped around her waist. 

"Do you like it? Just say yes, we can't afford to have another one made," she laughed as she leaned into him.

"It's perfect." He said, not even bothering to look; instead he was focused on his new wife. Run away from a bad engagement in New York and straight into the arms of his future wife. Las Vegas had indeed shown his luck, perhaps not in money, but in love; something far more indescribably valuable. It had been a whirlwind of a courtship, if that's even what you could call it. Michael had taken up driving a taxi around the Strip to make a living and relished spending every dime he had on her.

She insisted on saving money, despite his love-struck wantonness and it was she who cultivated his desire to help people out of difficult situations and parlayed it with this tiny office. He'd heartily agreed with her and they'd set about making all they'd envisioned a reality. The dream had been realized on the faith alone that they would gain business enough to keep them afloat, but there, standing with his arm around Abbey's waist, Michael felt the assuredness that, come what may, they would always be together.

He craned his neck around her as she leaned into him and kissed her in the lobby of the new office, "Can you believe how things work out?" he asked, not quite able to really believe it himself as he scanned the room. Abbey's desk sat squarely in the middle of the lobby area with a tiny electric fan set upon it and a brand new appointments ledger opened to the first page...which was blank. A single door was carved into the back wall, along the glass was written, "Michael Spillane" in gold lettering; the closest thing Michael figured he'd ever have to seeing his name in lights.

The phone rang then, and Abbey jumped. After a quick, hopeful look at Michael, she walked to her desk and lifted the handset from the cradle. Turning around to look back at her husband, she grinned as she spoke.

"Spillane Investigations, how can I help you?" She said professionally, not unlike the voice she'd used to sell cigarettes. Moments passed, in which you could hear a pin drop, had one actually dropped. "Yes, that's correct. Of course, utmost discretion at all times. Well let me see," she said doubtfully, staring up at the ceiling rather than at the empty appointment book below her. "Well, I'm not sure we have any...oh! Actually, we do have an opening today; there was a cancellation just this morning. This afternoon is fine, say two o'clock? Very well, Mister....Thompson, very well. We'll be seeing you at two, then. Goodbye!"

Face flushed with excitement, she hung up and looked at Michael again. "Our first appointment!! I need to run out and fetch a coffee service, maybe some pastries? I should maybe get some tea, as well...this is so exciting!" She enthused. "We didn't even have the sign up yet, but I guess this guy was in the area yesterday and saw the painting crew finishing up, asked what was coming in. I hope it's something fun, maybe where we get to travel a bit?" She rambled, grabbing her purse and rushing for the door as she looked at her watch. Before she got through it, she backtracked and kissed her husband. 

"I'll be back in a flash. Congratulations, Dear. You're officially in business!"

Michael was sitting in his desk chair as he checked his watch, five minutes til two. Mr. Thompson would be due any moment. He still didn't have any information about the case but his mind was awash with visions of stolen gems and unsolved murders. He meticulously cleared his desk, making sure his pens were vertical, his notepad on a clear sheet of paper, his blinds half-drawn just so, his client's chairs perfectly parallel to each other. Then he waited.

When next he checked his watch, it was five after two. His brow furrowed and he was nearly about to open his office door into the lobby when he heard his wife's voice outside greeting some visitor. He wheeled around on his heels and sped back to his office chair, taking a seat at the exact moment the office door opened and a smallish angry looking man entered the room in front of Abbey. Michael jumped back up from his chair, sending himself into an odd state of vertigo which he gently shook off as he extended a hand to the man,

"Hello, Mr. Thompson, I'm guessing?" he looked up at Abbey who shook her head to the affirmative behind him, "Please take a seat." Michael offered as he retook his own. Abbey took the chair next to Mr. Thompson who finally confirmed himself, "Yeah, that's me." he looked nervously around the room as though he was worried he was being eavesdropped on.

"Can I offer you some coffee, or maybe something to eat?" Michael offered, eager to make use of Abbey's preparations. "Yeah, I could go for a cuppa joe." Thompson replied. Abbey stood and retrieved a cup for him and returned in record breaking time, unwilling to miss anything by being away longer than necessary.

"So, Mr. Thompson, how can I be of service?" Michael finally asked, readying a pen from his desk.

"Right, erhm, thank you." he paused, accepting the coffee from Abbey, "So I got this broad, Michelle, from back east, yeah? Stunner. Absolutely gorgeous. I'm talking Cleo-fucking-patra, alright?" Michael continued to listen, not sure how to make that note in his pad... "Anyway, I bring her out west here for my, uh... job... and all of the sudden, she's out every night doing something or other, I'm talking two, sometimes three o'clock in the morning!"

Michael thought he knew where this was heading at this point and could see Abbey making notes of her own.

"Long story short, I think she's stepping out on me, and I wanna know who with."

Michael took down the woman's name, Michelle Vanderhoff, and made plans to follow her out one night to see what transpired in the evening. Mr. Thompson seemed to be in agreement with the plan and provided everything the couple would need to get started with the investigation right away as he finished his coffee. When they'd gathered everything they needed, they bade Mr. Thompson a good evening, and immediately got ready to stake-out the house.

"Abbey, Baby, you're packing too much," Michael pleaded, watching as his wife shoved all kinds of detritus into a large hobo bag.

"But we might need it! I mean, you can't go out on a surveillance job and then take a fifteen minute break because you forgot spare ink pens. Or a thermos of coffee. Or a flashlight..." she rattled on, focused on shoving as much as she could into the bag before the seams split.

The client had left their office while it was still daylight, and it was now approaching midnight, the time that Mr. Thompson had asked them to start the lookout. They'd sketched a rough outline of a plan, and then spent the afternoon in preparation; Michael had gassed up their modest sedan and thrown in a few blankets and coats. Abbey had...spent hours fussing over the contents of an oversized purse while the two had bounced thoughts and possible outcomes to each other.

Now, at one in the morning, they'd spent an hour sitting in the darkened car half a block from Vanderhoff's residence. Nothing happened yet, but it didn't matter; they were getting paid by the hour. It was getting damn cold, though, and Michael was having to surreptitiously start the car every now and again to blow some heat through the interior. Abbey sat poised with a pen in one hand, notepad and flashlight resting on her lap. 

Suddenly, Michael's stomach growled. Quite loudly, in fact. With a grin, Abbey reached into her massive bag of tricks and pulled out a club sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Handing it over, she waited.

"I will never question your packing again, Mrs. Spillane."

"Thank you. I...look! There she is!!"

Up ahead, Michelle Vanderhoff slipped through her darkened front yard and into her car at the curb. Firing up his engine, Michael waited until she was leaving the curb before he slowly did the same, headlights off and at a respectable distance. She turned, he turned. She stopped, he stopped. It was a slow, casual trip to a diner off the Strip as Abbey furiously took too many notes while holding the slim flashlight between her teeth. Eventually they came to a stop outside the large plate-glass windows across the street, just as Michelle entered the front door and virtually flew into the arms of a brick shithouse of a man. 

"Shit. SHIT! Pop the hood Michael, take the flashlight and make it look like the battery is sparking. Hurry!" After a half a second, Michael remembered the sandwich and moved, pulling the hood release and stepping out with the flashlight she'd handed him. Propping the hood up on its arm, he pretended to fiddle under the hood, flashing the tiny light on and off as if the battery terminals were giving him fits. 

Inside the car, Abbey had rolled down the window, reached into that cavernous handbag, and had hunkered down while taking aim. 

CLICK, flash. 

CLICK, flash. 

CLICK, flash. 

She was discrete about it, waiting for faces to be turned sideways, and trying to time her shots with the flashes coming at her peripheral vision through the windshield. After six, she was out of flashbulbs. It was all the overhead budget had allowed. Sliding back up in her seat, she leaned her head out the window before rolling it up. 

"Done!" 

Scribbling more frantically than ever, Abbey looked like a sketch artist, glancing up, writing, glancing up again. She wrote everything she could possibly think of as the two lovers inside held hands across the table and shared what looked like a strawberry sundae. Michelle fed her beau spoonfuls, and Abbey kicked herself for not saving some of the shots, but she figured, in the end, the hugging and kissing would suffice as proof of intimacy. Eventually the two parted ways, and since they already knew where Michelle was likely headed, they followed Brick Shithouse instead. He ended up at a rent-by-the-week motel that had all manner of riff raff hanging around it. No wonder he didn't take her here, Abbey thought to herself. Nothing about the place would have impressed Cleopatra.

Turning to her husband in the driver's seat, she shrugged. "Mystery solved?"

"So as you can see, Mr. Thompson, your hunch seems to have been unfortunately correct..." Michael said slowly as he spread the pictures Abbey had taken on his desk between them. Surprisingly he didn't show any emotion at all. He didn't get furious, he didn't sob, he just sat there causing Michael and Abbey to share a confused glance. Then he opened his mouth and mouthed, "So you're telling me, Michelle has been seeing Freddy this whole time?"

A little confused, Michael stuttered, "I-I'm sorry, Freddy?"

"This giant sack of shit here! His name is Freddy!" Mr. Thompson pointed to the large lover in the photo, "He's in my fucking c-... He works with me!"

A bit perplexed, Michael and Abbey silently gazed at each other as Thompson stood from the chair and paced back and forth angrily. Finally, he opened up his jacket and retrieved a yellow envelope which he slapped onto Michael's desk. As his jacket opened, Michael could see the faint glint of a gun along his waist.

"There, that should take care of your fees." He started gathering the photos, "Thanks for these."

Then just like that, he was storming out of the office, leaving the couple in an odd silence at how events had transpired. Eventually as the silence dragged on, Abbey started to giggle, the flighty sound of her laugh caused Michael to start laughing and soon they were both in raucous laughter that echoed off the walls. When they'd contained themselves, Michael stood and walked into the lobby with Abbey. Spinning her around, he kissed her; a celebration of their first job.

A few days later, with only the case of a missing poodle that had been found twenty minutes later in the neighbor's yard coming in, Abbey accepted the newspaper from the young hawker that was doing the morning neighborhood rounds. Settling back into her chair behind her desk, she sat straight up again when the minor headline on page two spilled into her brain.

"MICHAEL!!" she yelled, trying, and failing, to stand.

Murder Off the Strip!

Late yesterday, Freddy Anderson, temporary resident of the Lucky Strike Hotel, was found shot to death in his room. Neighbor Sal Marino was quoted as saying,

"Well yeah, he was a solid guy. Paid his rent on time I guess, we shared a beer or three and played some poker sometimes. He was a decent fella, sure as heck didn't deserve to be whacked in the noggin like that, that's a fact. Can't say I heard nothin', I had this girl with me, legs up to here-"

Local police continue to scour for clues, but at the time of this publishing, no leads are forthcoming.

Michael had come to stand behind her, reading the article over her shoulder. His hand came to rest on the top of her arm, so the THWACK of an envelope hitting the floor through the mail slot not long after he finished had her jumping, and him squeezing, reflexively. They both stared at it a moment, then Michael slowly walked across the room to retrieve it. It felt like just a thick bundle of paper rather than a bringer of death, so he opened it, unfolding the contents and scanning through them. After a long pause, he looked up at his wife.

"It says all of our expenses are covered if we agree to work for...the local Don."