Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of CSI:NY, they are property of Anthony Zuiker and CBS.

Author's Note: Gotta give the plot bunny credit to mustlovecat. She gave me the image of Flack in a fedora and a pinstripe suit that I couldn't get out of my head! Currently, "Trouble in Paradise" is ON HOLD, because this plot bunny has taken over. What can I say, a plot bunny in a pinstripe suit, tie and fedora is hard to ignore!

Better title and better summary coming soon!

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Chapter One:

New York City, May 1922

God, I'd kill for a drink.

As I sit in my office chair, chewing on a cigarette, watching the smoke curl up into the sunlight streaming through my semi-open blinds, I can't help but think how much I'd kill for a drink. Whole city jumped on board with this Prohibition thing. Can't buy a drop of alcohol anywhere in New York City.

They picked a hell of a time for me to quit drinking. I prop my legs up on my desk and tap the cigarette in the ashtray. It's unseasonably warm for May in New York City. The ceiling fan ain't doin' a thing to keep the office cool. I loosen my tie and roll up my sleeves. Sure would be nice to have a nice cold drink, I lament, cursing the city for Prohibition.

I can curse the city for Prohibition for other reasons too. Like the sudden rise in crime, the increase in dead bodies popping up all over my city. Lucky for me, I don't have to deal with it. I'm a PI, a private investigator. The NYPD gets to handle all the tough stuff. I ain't the one gettin' shot at on a daily basis, I'm not the one trying to bust the Sassone ring. Leave that to the "professionals." Hell, I haven't had a job in three months. Got just enough money to buy cigarettes.

The office is proof of that. Peeling paint, holes in the wall, revealing the wood frame behind. My ceiling fan doesn't work. My chair squeaks every time I turn in it. Entire place smells like cig smoke. The wood floor creaks, especially over by the door. I just know one of these days I'm gonna come back to the place and end up three floors below when I walk through the door. Even the coat rack behind the door is a little wobbly. Sits cockeyed, but if I put my hat in the right spot, I can make it balance. Can't do it with my coat, though, I toss the coat and the damn things falls over. No, my coat is tossed over the radiator, which I know doesn't work in the winter, so it ain't on now. There are days when being a PI sure as hell ain't as glamorous as people would think.

There's a knock on my door. My name's on the door, but there's a few letters missing. I glance up, taking a drag on my cigarette. Through the frosted glass I can just make out a silhouette. The silhouette is that of a woman. She's instantly recognizable. Tall, long hair, slim legs, great body. She's wearing a skirt that falls to just above her knees and a low-cut blouse. I can't tell that through the window, but I saw her when I came in this morning.

"Yeah?" I call out shortly. The door squeaks open, and in walks my secretary. Her name's Stella Bonasera, and there ain't a better lookin' woman in New York City than her. Today her hair is loose and wild and she's wearing her reading glasses. Most of the women in this city chopped their hair short. But not my Stella. She looks at me and smiles.

"Heya, Flack," she says. Aw hell, just those two words are enough to turn me on. She stops and sniffs the air, then grins at me. "You been smokin' again?"

"It's all I got now, doll," I reply. "Damn city took away my alcohol."

"Good, you're a rude, short-tempered drunk anyway," Stella shoots back. She's the only person that can get away with mouthin' off to me. "I came in here to brighten your day a little."

"Oh you did, huh?" I tease her. She's also one of the few people that can improve my surly mood. I haven't had a drink in five months, and I'm feelin' it. She knows it. She also knows that's why I'm constantly being an ass. So help me, I love my alcohol. "And tell me, Ms. Bonasera, how to you plan to improve my day?"

She tosses a piece of paper on my desk. "You got a call."

I look at her and make a face. "Stel, that ain't exactly what I was hopin' for."

She leans forward, resting her hands on the front edge of my desk and getting' right in my face. "Honey, I know what you were hopin' for."

"Any chance one day I'm gonna get it?" I ask her with a smile.

"Sure, Flack," she says. "When you stop bein' such a jerk." With that, she straightens and starts walkin' for the door. Damn, but I'm lovin' the view. "Quit starin' at my ass," she calls behind her. "And your client's gonna be here in twenty minutes." She closes the door behind her.

I look at the note that she gave me. Penned in her swirly script is the name Lindsay Monroe, 2125 5th Avenue. Damn, she's high class. I wonder why she's comin' to me instead of goin' to the real police. I look at my watch. I've got fifteen minutes before she's supposed to show up on my doorstep. I look around, wondering what I can do to clean up the place before she gets here. Then I say screw it. Little Miss High Class is gonna get my services, look included. I get up and head for the bathroom. I turn on the light and look at myself in the cracked mirror. My hair's longer than I'd like, and I'm sportin' a pretty nice five o'clock shadow. I rub a hand over my chin, feeling the few days' worth of stubble. I look like hell. Maybe it's the heat, maybe it's the fact that I've been dry for five months, I ain't exactly sure. I turn on the water and catch some in my hands before rubbing my face down, trying to look a little less grimy. Doesn't look like it's helped much.

A voice yells from the other room, "Quit makin' yourself beautiful. It's a lost cause!"

I turn off the water, realize I don't have a towel, and I rub my face dry with my sleeve. I probably just added a bunch of dirt to it again, but I don't really care. I head back into my office and prop myself in my chair again to wait for my high-class client. I take another drag on my cigarette and blow out the smoke in perfect rings. Everyone's gotta have a talent, right?

Stella knocks on my door again and opens it just a crack. "If you're decent, handsome, she's here."

I decide it would probably look unprofessional if I leave my feet propped on my desk, so I sit up straight and take one last puff on the cigarette. "Yeah, okay, beautiful," I tell Stella. "Go on and send her in."

Stella steps aside and my client comes through the door. She's exactly what I expect from someone from Fifth Avenue. She's went with the trend, cutting her hair straight and short, topping it with a black hat with a white rose. Her black dress is simple but short and low cut, accenting her...ah, assets, quite nicely. She's got on a pair of black heels and is clutching a purse like her entire life is inside. Automatically I check her hand. No ring. She's got big brown eyes and full lips. This woman is good lookin' in her own right. She doesn't top my Stella, but she ain't half bad.

"Mr. Flack?" she asks, taking a look around the place. I can tell she doesn't approve of the place. I don't give a damn. She looks back at me and gives me the same damn once-over look. "A-are you Donald Flack?"

I wince. I make a mental note to have Stella pull my first name from the door and the advertisement. "Flack. Just Flack. Mr. Flack's my father." Actually, Officer Flack was my father, but I really don't want to get in to that, especially not with her. "And you are?"

"Mr. Flack-" she pauses. High class habits die hard, I suppose. "Flack," she amends with an apologetic look. "My name is Lindsay Monroe. I need your help."

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This'll be my first foray into a period piece, so I would LOVE constructive criticism. Is it completely lame? Does it have potential? Please review and let me know!