The rain hadn’t stopped since Tuesday, and neither had the bills. My name’s Rex Calhoun, private investigator, caffeine enthusiast, and part-time philosopher when rent’s due. The city outside my window was drowning in its own perfume of gasoline and regret, and I was halfway through my third cup of burnt coffee when she walked in.

She had the kind of presence that made the room stand up straighter. The air turned cinematic. Her heels clicked across the linoleum like punctuation marks in a confession.

“Mr. Calhoun,” she said, voice smooth as smoke. “I hear you’re the man to see when things stop adding up.”

“Depends what kind of math you’re doing, doll,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “I don’t take on algebra or heartbreak.”

She smiled like a cat that knew the mouse was bluffing. “I’m not here for heartbreak. I’m here for truth. My husband… I think he’s involved in something. Organized crime, maybe. I just can’t prove it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a heavy maybe. What makes you think your mister’s moonlighting as a mobster?”

She crossed one leg over the other, deliberate as a loaded gun. “He’s always ‘working late.’ Keeps a separate phone. His associates have names like Vinnie Two-Toes and Sal the Quiet. And our new boat? He paid cash.”

I whistled low. “Lady, that’s not a hunch. That’s a résumé.”

“I need proof,” she said, eyes sharp. “Something solid before I make my move.”

“Your move?” I asked. “You planning to leave him or have him relocated to the bottom of that boat?”

“Depends on what you find,” she said sweetly. “And whether he deserves flowers or a funeral.”

I chuckled. “You’ve got spunk. That’s dangerous in this town. It attracts bullets and bad decisions.”

“I attract both already, Mr. Calhoun,” she said, standing up. “I just need someone who knows how to aim back.”

I watched her hand me an envelope. Cash. Enough zeroes to make me forget my better judgment.

“Find out who he really is,” she said. “And call me when you’re sure I’ll still want to know.”

She turned to leave, raincoat brushing the door frame like the end of a song.

When she was gone, I opened the envelope. There was cash, a photo, and a faint scent of expensive perfume. The kind that sticks around like regret.

I lit a cigarette I didn’t need and stared out at the city again.

The rain kept falling, but now I knew, and so would someone else.

The photo was black and white, the kind you see in old newspapers or bad marriages. Her husband looked like the type who ironed his shirts with a gun tucked under the board. Square jaw, expensive watch, and the dead eyes of a man who considered charm a tax write-off.

I took a drag of my cigarette, even though I’d quit six times this year. The seventh didn’t look promising.

A man like that doesn’t just work late. He works elsewhere, probably in dimly lit basements where conversations end with someone needing new dental records. And she wanted me to “find out who he really is.” Lady, if you need me to do that, you’re already in deeper than the Mariana Trench in high heels.

I poured myself another coffee. It tasted like regret and battery acid, which was still better than the instant stuff at the diner across the street. The rain kept playing jazz against my window, and the city was humming along like a broken record.

I looked back at the photo. The guy was standing beside that new boat she mentioned. Big thing, shiny, looked like it came with its own lawyer. “Paid cash,” she said. I muttered to myself, “Nobody pays cash for anything except silence and sins.”

I flipped the photo over. Written in neat handwriting were three words that made my eyebrows take a walk: ‘The Blue Serpent.’ That was the boat’s name. Either he had terrible taste or a sense of irony so sharp it could slice bread.

I pulled my coat from the rack and sighed. “Alright, Rex,” I told myself. “Time to go fishing for mobsters. Just another Wednesday in paradise.”

The rain hit me like unpaid debts the moment I stepped outside. I pulled my collar up and started toward the docks. If this husband was mixed up in crime, the harbor rats would know. They always do. Rats don’t squeal for free, though.

As I trudged through puddles that smelled like disappointment, I thought about the woman. She had the kind of confidence that came from knowing people would either help her or die trying. And me? I was just dumb enough to sign up for either option.

I reached the docks. The Blue Serpent was there, looking innocent, like a rich kid at a charity ball. The name gleamed in gold on its side, mocking me under the dim lights. I gave a low whistle. “Of course it’s blue. Evil people never pick beige.”

Somewhere in the shadows, a figure was watching me. I could feel the stare crawling up my neck like bad credit. I smiled to myself. “Perfect,” I whispered. “Nothing says welcome like someone planning my obituary.”

The rain didn’t stop. Neither did I.