The noon day sun hit me in the face with the force of a Louisville slugger as I heard the window blinds crash upwards. Struggling to put my hand between the offending glare and my crusty feeling eyes, I was even less prepared for the bucket of frigid water that hit me hard. My breath left me in a rush just as I was starting a good, healthy stream of expletives. "Good morning, sunshine!" rumbled the all too familiar voice of Detective Harry S. Jones, as he put down the bucket. I, Max Paluso, cool private detective, finally cleared the comfy couch I had been sleeping on and managed an indignant, "What the hell did you do that for, Jones?" Wiping the water from my face, I tried to collect my thoughts and at least some of my dignity. Kind of tough with water streaming down my face and a soggy blanket entangling my feet. "Howdy, Paluso. Sit back down. I couldn't think of a better way to start my day than to see your ugly hung-over mug shot first thing this morning. After I heard you had downed a few too many last night at Lucky Jack's, I knew you would be recuperating in this cockroach infested den of iniquity you call an office." Unfortunately, he continued. "Besides, I wanted to show you something I found last night... just to see if you recognize it." I then saw a brown paper bag next to Jones on my desk. Jones reached in to his vest and pulled out a gun. It was a .44 automatic, black as pitch except for the grips. They were inlaid with a deep green jade that glittered and winked like the eyes of a serpent.

"Ever see this little beauty before, Paluso?" queried Jones. With his eyebrow cocked at that precise angle, it gave Jones's face an innocent, inquisitive look. If you ignored the eyes, that is. I knew all about Harry Jones' interrogative skills. Behind the questioning face were eyes that were boring into my own, trying to extract the truth right out of me. I also knew exactly whose gun that was. Mine. It had been given to me as a souvenir from a client who had shot her philandering husband three months ago. The only reason she hadn't been gassed was due to the fact the husband had already been dead, poisoned by his ex-mistress. The gun was supposed to be in my desk drawer. But there it was in Detective Jones's hand, and Jones waiting for an answer. I put on what was meant to be my most innocent face. "Nice piece of hardware, Harry. Unusual, and a little too flashy for police work. What's up with it?"   

"Oh, nothing much. Except it was found right next to Joe Sperber, the attorney. Joe was found in his car in the alley behind Lucky Jack's last night. He had several bullet holes in him, with this on the seat beside him. Now, back to my original line of questioning. Are you at all acquainted with this gun?" Jones was nothing if not persistent. "Harry, I am not at all familiar with that gun." I said this with the straightest face possible. It was even kind of true, actually. I hadn't opened that desk drawer in weeks. I wasn’t familiar or could even remember what was in that drawer. Harry still had his eyebrow thing going. "I thought I remember you telling me about a gun like this you bought from crazy ol’ Widow Krieder. You know, the loopy one who shot her already dead husband." I replied smugly, "I know which one you mean, Harry. That gun was entirely different from what you've got right there. It was an automatic with mother-of-pearl grips. I didn't like how it shot, though, so I sold it last year."

"Who'd you sell it to?" Jones asked.

"I don't know. I just put an ad in the paper. Got $50 for it."

"That's pretty good, even for you. I'll ask Mrs. Krieder all about it, just to make sure. What about last night at Lucky Jack's? The bartender said you had more than your usual of the stuff they pass off as booze down there. You remember anything unusual through that ethanol haze you had going?"

"I remember lots of things. I remember coming back here and I vaguely remember some foolish stunts I am going to have to apologize for when I go back."

"Sounds just like you. You didn't break any furniture this time, and as long as one of your stunts wasn't to assist Mr. Sperber in leaving the land of the living, you and I will be straight. I know you and Joe Sperber weren't on the best of terms. Especially after he represented your ex-wife in the divorce and she got everything." I cocked an eyebrow and said, "She didn't get everything, Harry. I got to keep the overdrawn checking account, the back rent, and... oh yeah, the bill for her attorney." Jones chuckled, without enthusiasm. "So you did. But back to business. I got to tell you, Paluso, that my radar is up on this. Don't leave town. And make sure your stories match. If I get any leads pointing your direction my next visit won't be a social call." With that he picked up his hat and his bucket and made for the door. "Don't worry, Harry," I called after him. "Next time I'll bring the bucket!" But the nonchalant cheer I was trying to put in my voice just wasn't there. I was in a spot and I knew it would only be a day or two before the always-efficient Harry Jones would be checking my story. And when he found all the holes in it, he'd be back. Harry and I go way back, but that wouldn't stop him from taking me downtown. He's got this overblown sense of duty, or something like that.