You might be wondering what happened before now, but don't feel like searching for the links to the Table of Contents. As usual, I have to do everything around here.
My plan paid off handsomely. Unfortunately I'd bet against myself and lost big. Having followed my follower in reverse to his destination, which understandably had been his point of origin before he'd started walking forwards, I found myself in the office of the notoriously displeased mob boss Mr. Happy.
Like a tailored tuxedo, the name Mr. Happy was probably better suited for a man, but I wasn't about to question her choices to her face. Mr. Happy leaned over her desk, with the tip of her cigar grazing the end of my nose; and were it not for the 'No Smoking' city ordinance that thing might have actually been lit.
"Detective Guffey," she huffed.
"Present and accounted for!" I said in rapt attention.
"You're accounted for when I say you're accounted for!" Mr. Happy bellowed with a breath that smelled like Colgate. One of her henchmen, who I hadn't been aware was already in the chair in which I'd sat down, asked her if he should be taking minutes. Mr. Happy nodded. And she turned her attention back to me. "Now you're accounted for," she snapped, apparently feeling the groove.
"Mr. Happy," I said, "why have you taken an interest in my activities?"
She got right in my face. "I'll ask the questions!"
"And suppose I don't know the answers..."
"Then I'll answer them as well!" She snarled. "Why have I taken an interest in your activities? Because-" she pointed accusingly at me, "You look like you're thinking about snooping around. And I have a real problem with people who look that way."
"You ever try getting to know one?"
"Yes!" Mr. Happy growled. "And nothing bad happened. But I'm still entitled to my opinions. And I think it's about time you and I had a little chat."
"How little?" I asked needlessly adverbedly.
"So little that it's already over, Detective!"
Mr. Happy threw her hands in the air, waved them around like she didn't care (which admittedly hurt my feelings) and pulled The Manual of Violent Threats out of her desk. She found the information she was looking for, and I knew I was in trouble, because she muttered something about me being in trouble.
But before she could make two copies of the page for her henchmen I heard a familiar car horn, familiar because it sounded like a car horn and I've heard those before. I poked my head out into the hall to tell it to shut up when it occurred to me that I never ate my oatmeal that morning. That, and there was only one person I knew who could drive a car into a hallway without making a sound.
I resigned myself to the reality that my breakfast was likely cold by now and tapped on the driver's side glass. "Hey. You in there?"
Miss Nomer rolled down her window. "Get in!"
"In the car?"
"No! In line for the community theater production of Chicago!"
In the event that she wasn't being sarcastic it was to my advantage to dive in the passenger side. Mr. Happy's henchmen appeared in the doorway, pointing at us and hopping up and down.
"Pull carefully out into traffic and floor it!" I advised, placing my hands on the dashboard to brace for an inevitable impact. After what seemed like a few ambiguously measured moments I realized the vehicle wasn't moving. Miss Nomer glared at me.
"Please?" I added, and we were off.
There's actually a Chapter Three, and I can prove it.
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