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I don't like this job. So don't assume that I do.

Why would I like it, anyway? It doesn't pay well. I get shot at every other day, and when I'm not getting shot at someone's bashing me over the head with a blunt weapon.

My office is over a bar, for Chrissake. When I don't pay the electric bill and they cut my lights, the neon sign from Jimmy's still lights up my office bright enough to type by. And I can hear every word someone yells in the bar. Sometimes people see the stairs, don't see the sign, and wander up here looking for a hotel room.

I keep an old shotgun in a closet just for that purpose. Does real nice when you're trying to scare someone off, but I've never even bought ammo for the thing. So if I ever get in a situation involving someone more threatening than two horny drunks and that shotgun's all I've got...

I don't like this job, okay?

But that doesn't mean I can't like some of the stories I've got because of it. They get me free drinks sometimes, if I loosen my tie and unbutton my collar, show off the scar where some crazy bastard tried to cut my throat with a shaving razor.

Only if I tell the story too, though.

So how about we get a start on this story? It's my favorite so far, and the night's still young. Get another drink from the bar and settle in -- Jerry never minds if I stay a little long because I'm telling a story.

And we've got all the time in the world to spend, haven't we?

The only trouble with this story is that, like every other one, I'm not sure where to start. This is my great shortcoming. Once I get going, I'm gangbusters -- I have a good memory and a flair for storytelling (if I do say so myself). It's the getting-going that kills me.

It was night when it all started. Night, and the end of the month -- I remember that because I had all the lights off, trying to save money on my electric bill. So the neon sign for Jimmy's was the only light in my office, and I liked that just fine.

See, I may not like my job, but I try to do it well. There are dozens of other private eyes in this city, and they're all trying to get enough business to pay the rent. So if I don't do what I do well, my customers, clients, whatever you want to call them... they'll find someone else.

I'd rather be a private eye than a hobo, thank you very much.

So I keep my office clean and neat -- if there's one thing customers don't like, I've found, it's a messy private eye, because someone whose office is sloppy probably won't handle your case very well -- but I also try to make it what people will expect. Moody. Not terribly well-lit. My name stenciled in white on the door over the legend "Private Eye" and a drawing of an all-seeing eye.

I do all this because it makes people want to trust me more. Be honest. What private eye would you trust -- the one whose office looks straight out of the movies, or the one whose office is crammed somewhere unusual, or has a weird style to it?

Besides, the office helps: I don't look much like a private eye myself. No dark, brooding eyes under the brim of a tattered old hat for me -- I have blue eyes, which I have been told are light and untroubled, and when I do wear a hat it's in good condition, although it isn't the latest fashion. I'm not old and worn, either -- I look younger than I am, except that my hair's going grey at the temples.

With a job like mine, yours would too.

I could go on -- I'm not as rumpled as most private eyes, I wear glasses, I'm a good shot with ten different kinds of gun... But I sense you'd rather hear me talk atmospherically about murder.

Fine then. I know I tend to go off on tangents -- just stop me if I do, would you?

So it was night, at the end of the month. I won't say which month, because they all feel the same to me... especially in this city. It's always hot.

I was sitting behind my desk, wondering if anyone was really going to come to me with a case at this time of night. Crime happens all the time, I know, but people rarely go seeking out a private eye that late.

If I'd just given up then, none of it would ever have happened, and I wouldn't be sitting here right now. I'd probably be upstairs, waiting for someone to walk in my door.

But I hung on fifteen extra minutes beyond when I usually go downstairs, thinking of all the bills I would have to pay that month... if I were lucky I could put some of them off, but some of them I needed to pay, and soon.

So I stuck around, looking at the way the light from the sign reflected off various metallic objects in the room -- the file cabinet, the typewriter, the handles on my desk drawers, the doorknob. Maybe I needed to get shades so the light wouldn't shine in all the time... but then again, I liked the look of the light. Much better than the harsh light of the cheap lightbulbs I bought and used when I could.

More atmospheric.

Then I heard footsteps on the stairs. I'd have gotten up and reached for the shotgun, but they were too steady to be a drunk's footsteps. And besides -- the footsteps were the click-click of high heels, and somehow I knew that whoever was wearing them was sober as a judge. Call it extra-sensory perception if you want.

So I just sat there in the dark, waiting as the footsteps got closer to my door. My office is the first door on the left after the stairs. Across the hall is a dentist's office, and next to that is allegedly a pawn shop, but everyone knows it's actually a bookie's place of business. (Because why would a legitimate pawn shop be on the second floor above a bar? Well, that's why the guy became a bookie.) Maybe she was going there.

It was not to be. She stopped in front of my door, a feminine shape outlined against the frosted glass, evidently considering if she wanted to come in or not.

I prayed that she would -- this dame, whoever she was, had made it this far. Come on, lady...

She knocked on the door, waited a moment, then turned the doorknob and stepped in, closing the door behind her.

"Herr Batchelder?" Her voice was quiet, but firm. Accented, but not strongly. Probably confident in her own strength, maybe had hesitated before seeking me out at all.

Whatever she needed a private eye for, I doubted it was stolen jewelry.

"That's me," I said, and got out of my chair, went around the desk to shake her hand. Strong grip, stronger than usual for a woman. She was dressed well, hair cropped short in a bob haircut that had been fashionable a decade ago, dress plain black but cut short. High heels, crystal stud earrings. She had money, but not a lot. Maybe liked the high life, but knew how to live within her means. "And you are?"

"Doctor Marian Janssen." I retreated back behind the desk, gave her a chance to sit down. I'd heard her name before, somewhere. "I work at Itexicon; perhaps you've heard of them?"

She had to be kidding. Without Itexicon this city would have gone down the tubes a long time ago -- with them, we're keeping afloat. "Yeah," I said. "I've heard the name before."

She folded her hands in her lap. "I thought you might have."

"So why are you here, Doctor Janssen?" Normally the first thing people say to me is "You gotta help me find this guy" or "Some punk stole my necklace" or something. They don't ask if I'm the guy with his name on the door. "You lose something?"

She fixed her eyes on me and said icily, "I have lost much, Herr Batchelder."

I winced. Ouch. I should've picked up on that -- with that accent, I should've known where she'd come from, and why. It's my business, after all. "Well... why are you here, then?"

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucked it behind her ear, then spoke. Like most of my customers when they tell me why they've come to me, it was a long speech broken up by pauses. "Last week -- yes, a week ago today -- I came into my office and found it in a -- a shambles. My colleagues on the project discovered the same in their offices. Nothing had been taken -- except our notes, which is curious, as they would not be understood by most laymen."

She made eye contact -- she'd been staring at my desk as she spoke, and now she fixed those intense eyes on me. "I need your help to find the notes and the man who stole them." She smiled -- a brief, hard smile. "I am sure you understand my need for urgency and the utmost discretion."

I nodded. "Of course, Doctor Janssen." I'd met well-educated college girls who took longer to get to the point than she did. I liked this dame already. "May I ask you some questions?"

"Certainly, Herr Batchelder." Her hand rose a little, as if to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, or to play with her earrings, but she forced it down into her lap again.

"Why not go to the police? Why a private eye?" The police, while some of them are scumbags, are professionals. And the law is on their side.

"I was referred to you by a friend who said you were the man for the job."

Well, all right then. I don't get that a lot. Not many repeat customers in my line of work.

"Why did you wait a week to... find someone to help you?" The longer you wait to look for stolen property, the less likely it is that you'll ever find it. She probably knew that, as smart as she was.

"We had to ensure that the notes had, in fact, been taken." Quick, snappy answer. Doctor Janssen was shaping up to be a model customer -- but I had a feeling that this case was going to be a hard one. Just a hunch. "And I had to request permission to take the case to an outside contractor. Itexicon is a very... private company."

"I think I get the picture," I said. "I know it's been a week, but can I come scout out the -- the offices?"

"I was about to ask if you would feel comfortable coming to Itexicon tomorrow." She rose from her chair.

"Doctor Janssen -- you'll have to provide transportation." I don't own a car. Why would I? No one does in this part of town. They cost too much, upkeep is hell if you're not mechanically-minded, and unless it's a bucket of rust held together with bolts, someone will steal it before the engine even has a chance to cool down.

Also, I don't have a license.

"I'll have a car sent for you in the morning. In the meantime, Herr Batchelder..." She turned back to face me, the neon light striking harshly on the planes of her face, casting half of it into shadow. "Don't tell anyone that Itexicon has chosen to consult with you. Please. It's for your own good."

With that, she was gone -- just a shadow behind the door, then footsteps tapping on the stairs.

I drew a pack of cigarettes out of my shirt pocket and lit up. Every private eye I've ever known smoked -- not just because it's part of the image, but because it calms them down.

There are some things a man just can't deal with on his own.

I leaned against the edge of the desk, already wishing she'd never come in. Finding lost jewelry, as boring as it is, doesn't get me involved with companies as big and dangerous as Itexicon.

Now there is a bunch of amoral bastards I'd hoped never to work with.

See, as much as Itexicon coming to town saved us from the Depression, no one knows exactly what they do in that big grey building in the center of town.

Or if they do know, they don't talk about it.

But Itexicon makes money. Lots of money. They're rolling in dough, to use the old cliché.

If nothing else, I was going to be paid extremely well for this job.

Was it worth the money?

That's the ultimate question here: if the payoff was worth what I had to do to get it.

I'm not sure if it was.