It was a damp, heavy night, shrouded in a blanket of thick darkness interrupted only by the greasy glow leaking poisonously from an eclectic mix of bars, clubs and other undesirable places; undesirable, that is, unless a hard day's work had you gasping for somewhere warm, smoky and full of alcohol to rest your weary body. If that happened to be the case, even the most undesirable of dirty little bars can seem like the pristine pearly gates themselves; well, that, and a solemn splash of something strong and stiff. It was in a bar such as this that the events that beget this story took place: a dingy place frequented by faces that'd been there for years, as grimy and grey as the sad-looking chairs spotted around the sticky, sweaty bar; lights dimmed so that shadows cast by shapes that may or may not have been there danced lazily on the peeling crimson wallpaper; the low, omnipresent drone of the same jazz quartet that'd been there every night for as long as anyone could remember, interrupted by the melancholy strains of a saxophone; the bartender himself a human reflection of the place, a dogged, fading man with a face more lined than the palm of his calloused hands, stained as they were with the blood of memories he wasn't sure if he could trust.
"Regular'll be fine, Harry, you know the drill," came the agreeable, if somewhat pinched, voice of a man dressed in a black suit sharper than a bloodied knife, as well as a long, formless tan coat, which he removed as he settled onto the same grubby barstool he did most nights.
"I sure do, Cooper. How's the case?" the bartender replied as he fixed the man's drink, glancing at Cooper as he leant forward, watchful eyes darting about the place before settling on the glass that'd just been placed in front of him.
"Solved it, at the expense of a few nights' sleep."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oh yeah. It was the brother, just like I suspected. That man… twisted, I could sense it soon as I saw him. Tore up his own sister, if you can believe it, blamed it on his nephew, her son."
"Evil son of a bitch."
"Harry, you have no idea," Cooper asserted jadedly, looking down at his drink and shaking his head slowly.
"I have no idea, huh? I served as head of the local police department for fifteen years, think I oughta know what evil looks like. Seen more murders than I can count on two hands," Harry replied, holding up both hands to accentuate his point. Cooper noted with interest that there was only half a pinkie finger on the left hand, rounded off into a jagged nub.
"I don't doubt it. People are…" he began to say, before trailing off as he noticed Harry had let his attention drift elsewhere. "What is it, Harry?"
"Behind you," Harry gestured with a nod. "Local jailbait Audrey Horne. Moon over her all you want, plenty do, but lay a hand on her and her daddy's men will put a hole in your head before you even know what happened."
"Her daddy?" Cooper asked, turning briefly to look at the girl. She was undoubtedly jaw-dropping, dressed in scarlet with legs for days and eyes that'd make any man feel inadequate; the wispy smoke from her cigarette twirled above her hair like the last breath of a dying man as she whispered something into the ear of a nervous looking foreign man in a cheap suit, her heavily painted smile mocking him playfully.
"Benjamin Horne owns a lotta people, if you know what I mean. Any of these lowlife schmucks'll be in debt to the brothers Horne, just you bet. You can trace any petty crime back to them. Young girl murdered in a dark alley somewhere? The Hornes profited from it," Harry explained in a low voice, glancing across the room stony-faced.
"You ever come across him when you were with the force?"
"Ha! People who get involved with that gangster business get dead, that's how it is. No, Coop, you'd be wise to stick with the petty murders. No offence but a private eye like yourself ain't no match for the criminal underworld of Twin Peaks."
It started to rain as Cooper shrugged on overcoat and left the bar, icy droplets pelting against the concrete forcefully. The sky was black, and so was the rat's maze of bleak streets and shadowy back alleys that made up this part of town. As Cooper trudged along the road, trying in vain to light a cigarette in the oppressive downpour, a glimpse of red stood to him in the dire monochrome of the grim evening ambience. He glanced up to see the outline of a girl in a long dress with hair piled atop her head stood on a street corner, staring straight at him; she could be hardly more than a teenager, he thought, though it was hard to tell in this light. His first thought was that she was some kind of prostitute, but something- his infamous intuition, probably- told him otherwise.
He looked around quickly to see if there was anyone else out at this time of night.
When he looked back she was gone.
"Miss?" he called out in shock. His voice echoed around the empty streets and by the time it reached him again it was indiscernible as his own. Nothing but warped shadows twisted in the spot where the girl had just been standing; that and, Cooper noted as he rapidly approached, a strong smell of expensive perfume. He stood for a minute on the corner she had just been lurking around, searching for her and wondering if he had finally started to go crazy, but the night ground on and the rain kept falling, and eventually the time came to give up and leave.
The thought of that girl, the lingering scent of her perfume, the distorted shadows that'd corkscrewed where she'd stood were the fuel for the strangest dream that night.