I sighed, propping my converse sneakers up on my desk. Business was slow, as usual. You see all those movies about private eyes, with this glorious drama and adventure in their life.
But that's when they have a case.
Yup, I'm a private detective. The name's Two-Bits.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking. God, paranoid freak. She's so psycho, she has to use "code names."
Well, shut up. I'm not using "code names." This side of New York, everyone has a nickname. People either want to hide from their screwed up life, or hide from the police. No one asks.
The Jarro is the place where people drown their sorrows in Irish ale. Kloppman runs the joint. He's got a Vaudeville reject named Medda, who sings every night. She's your typical forty-year-old trying to look twenty.
"The usual, girly?" I looked up. Spot Conlon, the bartender, was smirking down at me. I sighed. The boy knew me too well.
"Yeah, give me a big one," I said, leaning heavily on the counter. He ducked under the counter, then stuck a pint of Ben Jerry's in front of me.
…What? I grew up a loser private schooler. You think I can drink hard liquor like nobody's business?
"Thanks, Spot," I said, picking up the spoon he slid down the bar to me. I was just digging in when the door shot open with a bang, complete with dramatic clap of thunder.
Everyone froze and turned around, where Jack Kelly, or Cowboy, was standing in the doorway, sopping wet, and white as a sheet.
"The Jacobs," he gasped, raking a step forward, "are dead!"