Noir AU

PROMPT: Leia is the hardboiled detective, Boba is the tasty trouble.

The way it goes is like this. They walk in the door. They have a problem. They're not expecting a woman.

Plenty of them have asked me to fetch my boss. "Let me talk to the man in charge, sweetheart," as if there's some other room in this dive. As if I'm not sitting at the big desk, with my certificate behind me. Leia Organa, Private Investigator.

This guy was different, I could see it right away. He was expecting a woman. He asked around before. That makes him trouble.

Not a bad looking bit of trouble. He's got an island look to him, black hair, dark eyes. Skin like coffee with a lot of cream. When he says "good afternoon" there's a slight trace of an unfamiliar accent. That's San Francisco for you.

"Good afternoon," I reply. He's got a tattoo on his chest, I can see the edges just above his shirt collar. I'd like to see the rest of it. I wonder if he'd unbutton his shirt to show me.

Like I said, trouble. "What can I do for you?"

"You have a reputation for finding people," he says. "I'm looking for someone. A friend." He lays a battered photograph on the top of the desk, and flicks it toward me with his fingers.

It's raining handsome men in here today, although the man in the photograph is the opposite of my visitor in every way. A white man with tousled hair, slouching in the booth of a diner. The way he's smiling, you have to figure who ever took the photo was close to him. Real close.

Now I'm looking at my visitor and wondering something else. "A friend, huh?"

"We were in the navy together."

That could be true. This one carries himself like a military man. "Name?"

"Han Solo."

"Sit down," I tell him, and I reach into my bottom drawer for the scotch. "When did you last see him?"

"About six weeks ago. He was a regular at the gambling parlor on 6th Street. Had a lot of debts."

He sits without looking at the chair. Without taking his eyes off of me. This guy's getting more interesting by the second.

"You think someone got tired of waiting for payment?" I set two crystal highball glasses on the desk with a thunk. Normally I'm not stingy, but my scotch reserves are running low. I pour two slim fingers in each glass.

"Or he bolted." The man shrugs. "But I think he's still here."

"Why's that?"

"He has a dog. Big shaggy beast. Goes everywhere with him. If he left the area, I think he would have taken the dog with him."

There's a theory I'm working on. I lean forward and push one glass toward him, with too much force. It slides right off the edge of the desk, and without so much as a blink, he catches it with one hand. For the first time, his eyes drop, down to the oriental rug that's been discolored by so many dropped scotches.

He raises his eyes slowly and meets mine.

Yeah. Trouble.