AN: This one is going to be a bit tricky. I'm trying a few new things, but they are mostly shrouded in what I usually do. I gotta confess (well, not really, if you've read my profile), I really do love them hard-boiled stories. Still, this fic kinda worries me. I usually try to break the norm whenever I tamper with a particular "universe," or however you want to put it, but I might be pushing it this time. Still, I don't think I am going to stop, because I feel like I am continuing parts of the theme, in a way, or at least what I took from it. I feel that justifies this, and strangely, I feel oddly compelled to write this one. I've kind of wanted to do a story like this. Oh, and show that I'm paying attention to criticism. I really meant it when I said I was going to try harder, and I actually want to be a better writer. So, lemme know your thoughts.

Here we go.

It was another lonely day, going to be followed by another lonely night. I puffed on my cigarette, watching the smoke start hot then fan out and disappear against the fading sky. I was dressed as nothing special, and feeling about the same. I was looking to slouch into a booth at Jay's bar, sipping a beer or two to pass the time. I wasn't going to look for a girl or chat with a friend. I think I wanted to be alone, but surrounded by people as well, so I wouldn't feel completely disconnected from the world.

The sidewalk reflected the sky a bit, looking slick from the recent rain, slightly silver and metallic. The sky was changing from blue to orange to red, causing the remaining clouds to kaleidoscope as well. The cityscape looked slightly gilded. The colors managed to look both vibrant and subdued, caught in that strange time right before sunset. It all looked unreal, like a painting. The walk passed by the river, with that being on my left, and various businesses and apartments stacked tall on my right. Mostly everyone was over on the walk close to the city, and the few that were riverside with me all seemed to be going in the other direction.

Jay's wasn't going to be lively for a few more minutes, but there was already someone outside, drying off the chairs out front, getting ready for happy hour. Inside was always warm, but it never felt stuffy. Nearly everything was carved out of wood, and the soft glow of the lights gave it a homey kind of feel. You halfway expected to see a fireplace in the corner. What you did get was a large antique wooden radio. Someone was fiddling with the knobs with a look of discontent concentration, switching from the news, to several dramas, before finally landing on the game he wanted with a soft smile. He walked back over to his chums next to the old pool tables. There'd been talk of replacing them, being that they were starting to show some wear, but it hadn't happened yet. On the other side, the right, by me, was the jukebox. It didn't have any glaring lights, it didn't scream anything at you, jumping up and down like a kid craving attention. It was mature and reserved, playing calm music. "Six Blade Knife," by Dire Straights. The owner apparently had it set up that way, and for that, I dedicated my first beer to him.

By the end of the first, I had only read about a page of the book I brought. Jay's was starting to get busy, and I started to wonder if I was going to be forced to share my booth. I liked the people where they were.

"Excuse me, sir? Do you mind if we seat someone with you?"

Apparently the management didn't. Smarmy bastard already had the first beer, and I couldn't take it back. "Sure, that's fine."

A few seconds later, a man dressed as gray as I felt slid across from me. He fumbled with some manilla envelopes as he sat down, giving them a hard look. His hair was neatly trimmed, and he had a blue tie stuck in his gray suit, the latter making him look as angular as my guesses about his personality. He gave me a quick nod and a small smile, then ordered a sandwich and coffee from the waitress. After she left, he spoke, "Hey, thanks."

"It's no big deal."

"Believe it or not, it is. I hate stools."

"Yeah." I sipped at my beer.

He chuckled, "Besides, it's not good to drink by yourself."

"Or dine, I guess." I tried to ignore him, paying more attention to Link Wray throwing notes of "Jack the Ripper" at me. The guy's food arrived, and he ate, cleanly. That was the only way to describe it. Not one crumb hit the table, and the napkin was at his mouth before I could see anything hanging off of it. It was sort of impressive, I guess. After he was done, he sipped at another cup of coffee, and then started smacking a new pack of cigarettes against his palm. I eyed them hungrily.

"You don't mind, do you?" he asked nicely.

"No."

"Very good, and thanks again." He didn't open them though. He just kept tapping them against his palm.

"I mind that, though," I said while nodding at the pack.

"Mind what?" He didn't miss a beat. Literally, it sounded like a metronome to the music.

"Never mind." I sighed it more than I said it. It didn't seem to phase him at all. He asked, "So, you come here often?"

My eyebrow was up. I wondered if it was going to get stuck like that, just the way mother said. "Y-yeah..."

He waved a hand around, "I've never been here, but I've heard about it. I kinda like it, it feels, I don't know, what's the word?"

"Homey, I guess."

He snapped his fingers, making me cringe a bit. I started to feel like I was losing this conversation. The man's presence seemed to be looming over me, "That's it! Though, I guess a sandwich isn't too homey, eh?"

"Anything can make you feel like home."

"So it's like a state of mind, then?"

"Sure."

"How poetic!" I swear I could see every one of his teeth. I was depressed by how they were whiter than mine and that I took the minute to notice that. "Wow! That's really something!" He chuckled to himself. I half-lunged for my glass. That only got him to focus his attention, "Do you write?"

"What gave you that idea?" He pointed at my book, and I shook my head, "No, and I don't have any intention of doing so."

"Ah, but you have some interest in the arts then, I would guess." I started to get worried. Why was he so hell-bent on starting a conversation with me? He answered that thought, but not in what seemed like a truthful way, "I'm more interested in the visual arts, but I would love to read more." He looked up from packing his cigarettes, and asked me lightly, while looking somewhat playfully at me, "You know anything about art?"

I kept our eyes locked for a minute. When I broke them, I slowly sipped at my beer, "No."

"Nothing at all?"

"Nothing."

A small smile played on his face, keeping with his slight jovial tone, "You sure?"

I licked beer foam off my lips, "I know what it does to people."

He leaned back, a quiet chuckle escaping as he did so, "I hate to repeat myself, but I have to ask, are you sure you don't know anything about art, then?"

"What I know I'd hardly call artistic."

"What if someone wrote a book, or something?"

"I'd call it depressing."

His laughs got a little bit louder. "Very good, very good indeed. A bit melodramatic, but nonetheless."

"Thanks. Maybe I should try out for open mic night."

"Now, now, don't get too ahead of yourself. You still need a bit of work." He reached into his jacket, and pulled out one of the manilla envelopes. "Speaking of which, what do you do?"

"Apart from stumble through a divorce and chatting it up with strangers? Medical research."

He snapped his fingers again, "That's right. Medical research. Very impressive for someone with arrhythmia."

I had been sipping my beer. I put it down with a light thunk on the wood. I didn't say anything. It was fine to us both. I was being polite, and he apparently wanted to show off. We all have to take our little victories when we can. I figured I had no right to deny him his.

He put the envelope down, and folded his hands on it, locking eyes with me again. The smile was still on his face, but he managed to carry an air of professionalism, "Running the floor at a hospital after school with a dangerous condition that only gets more dangerous with physical exertion makes one wonder. But, hey, the meds have gotten better over time, right?" He added the last word after a very brief pause.

I nodded. He buzzed, "You managed to wow people, despite the fact that I wasn't the only one to wonder about you during your steady rise. But, you got married, even if for only three years. No kids, though." He paused again. "I won't ask why." I wondered if he already knew why. "Still, you work as hard as ever. No real change, actually." He regarded the envelope again. He picked it up, and pulled out the contents, but I couldn't see anything.

I snorted, "My wife hire you or something? I'm afraid you're going to be very disappointed. I never had the stomach for cheating." Or the heart. Take that one as you will.

He shook his head, "No, your wife has nothing to do with this. Actually, very few people you know have anything to do with this."

"I didn't know I was so popular."

He gave me a knowing smile, and looked as if he was going to say something. After a second, "You weren't very popular until a woman dropped your name a few weeks back." He finally started to peel open the pack, "She wasn't in a very good state. She's an artist."

"Sounds depressing."

"Hah! It kind of was, actually. The people I work for have me occasionally... in the same room as her. That was one of those times." He sipped from his mug, "Some one dropped something in her drink."

"Like I said, depressing."

He ignored me, "I had to watch her all night, make sure that she stayed awake until it was safe. It got pretty bad. She isn't one for drugs. She says all they do is let her thoughts run wild, and she has a hard enough time as it is keeping them corralled."

"'I don't do drugs, I am drugs.'"

He tipped his coffee at me, "Exactly."

"Brevity is also the soul of wit."

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. I remember watching her try to pick up a glass of water. She couldn't do it for the life of her. I asked her if she needed help, you see, but she said she didn't. She said she was stuck with some feelings, and she needed to live through them as best she could, to exercise them. More my words then hers, but you asked me to keep this brief." He looked up at the ceiling, letting his mind wander back to that scene, "She said she felt like Hisao. Like Nakai Hisao." He smiled at me. I felt like I was sitting waist-deep in centipedes. "Naturally, because I am finding myself rather limited, my employers asked me to seek you out, to see if you could help. I keep running into obstacles, mainly people who don't want to deal with me or who I represent."

I felt a tic in my eye, "Just what do you need me for?"

He stuck a smoke in his mouth, lit it, leaned back, and said, "Tezuka Rin has gone missing."

I reached for his pack without asking. He didn't do anything about it. He even lit it for me. What a nice guy. Throws you out a ten-story window, then helps you to your feet. I cracked my knuckles, and spoke to them more than anything else, "And what the hell does that have to do with me? I haven't seen her since high-school."

He shrugged, "She said your name. That has to mean something. You were her high-school sweetheart, weren't you?"

I mulled that over. I mulled over what would happen if I said yes. "Sort of. We weren't that close."

"I heard different."

"Everything's subjective when it comes to this. Sure, I was there. But I also wasn't. Things ended pretty bad."

"Still, she remembered you, enough through the haze she was in. Plus, didn't you help her get her start?"

I grabbed my head in my hands, "So what?"

"So, I can't get close. You were a friend, and probably more than that. Maybe she doesn't want to be found, Nakai."

I gave him a puzzled look, "Why would that be?"

The suit looked troubled, "Her work started to get very strange over the last year. She didn't like it herself, and others started to think the same. She said she wanted a break, so, we let her have it. Then, she disappeared."

"Who's 'we?'"

"People who have backed her up over the years. We're the best chance she has at staying successful, so naturally, we're worried."

That didn't make much sense when it came to its face value. Still, I sighed, "I'll... I'll think about it. She's not in danger, is she?"

"We don't think so, but if you think she is, tell us right away." He pushed the envelope over to me, and I pocketed it. "I said I'll think about it," I practically growled. He just shrugged again, "Well, let us know. Good night, Nakai."