Disclaimer: I own nothing and profit none.
A/N: I've got no answer for this. Because I couldn't not? I admit that I fully deserve any and all eye rolls for this one. [But, come on, Sanctuary meets film noir? Kinda cool, isn't it? :)]
Total Word Count: 15,766
It was a hard life on the mean streets of Old City. Hard, like the hearts of those behind the cases that dropped on his desk every week.
Well, every week or so.
Truth be told, PI Zimmerman thought as he rolled his desk chair back to look out through the slits in the blinds, given the lack of cases he'd seen over the past weeks, hearts in the City could stand to be a little harder. It was between the train of this thought and the next one - which concerned the bottle of whiskey hidden in his bottom drawer - that he heard the creak of the outer door opening.
"Hello?" It was a dame's voice. Soft, but with an accent. So what was a British doll doing on Old Zimmerman's doorstep?
He hauled his bones out of the chair piecemeal and went to stand in the doorway to get an eyeful. And boy, did he ever. Doll was right on the money, from her killer legs right on up to those wide blue eyes.
"Are you the PI, Will Zimmerman?" she asked, taking a step across the threshold. "I need your help."
Unfortunately, he had an ironclad policy about canoodling with the clientele. Though in this case, maybe he should look into getting that amended.
"That's me," he leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms. "What's got you in a twist, sweetheart?"
"My name's Helen Magnus," the dame said, a bit pointedly. "And I'm given to understand you can find things that no one else can, am I correct?"
"That's the rumor," he paused a moment, "Miss Magnus. What'd you happen to lose?"
"Doctor, actually," she stepped completely into the room, turning around to shut the door behind herself. "And I've lost my... dog."
"A pooch on the run, Doc?" Zimmerman shrugged into the hard wood of the frame. "Easy money would be on the dog catchers. Don't need a fella like me for that."
"I did try them, but this is a rather special dog, Mr. Zimmerman." The dame hesitated for a moment, "You see he's rather large. Part wolf, to be exact."
"That would put the catchers on the hop," he admitted. "So's what d'you think I can do, that they can't?"
"If they found him, they'd just kill him," she explained earnestly, those blue eyes locking on him relentlessly. "Whereas if you find him, then I can convince him to come home. He'll recognize me, that is," the Doc finished hurriedly.
Maybe it was the eyes, maybe it was the legs, maybe he just needed the dough, but Zimmerman found himself taking the job. One day, he'd learn how to resist a doll in distress.
"Once you find him, just leave a message with the gentleman at this number," she pressed a folded bit of paper into his hand, "and I'll come right away."
"One pooch, one ring, got it Doc," he winked against his better judgement. Though if that slit in her skirt went any higher, judgement wouldn't have much of a say in the matter at all.
"Oh," she turned back as he was appreciating her walk towards the door, "I forgot. It's most imperative that you find him tonight. He's sick," she explained at his skeptical look. "I'm afraid that if you don't find him by dawn, it might be too late."
"With a time limit like that, there's no promises," he warned, then gave in again as the lower of her perfectly red lips turned downwards, "but I'll do my best, sweetheart."
"I know you will," she said warmly, those full lips rising into a heart-breaker's smile. "I'll be waiting on that call."
The door closed behind her before he'd even caught his breath, but by then he'd been had, good and truly. Never trust a dame, Zimmerman, he berated himself as he tossed his old trench coat on to ward off the City's chill. Never leads to nothin' but trouble.
Leastways he knew where to track down this particular brand of trouble. If there was a wolf prowling the City, then he knew just the man to see. Grabbing his once-snappy fedora from the rack near the door, he headed out into the night.
MacRae's Pub was overflowing that night. Made sense, given the full moon overhead and the sharp wind down below. Still, it meant a wait at the bar for Ol' Deco to work his way free of the crowd long enough to have a leg of jabber.
"The usual?" brought Zimmerman back from scrutinizing the pub patrons to find MacRae at his elbow with a heavy pint glass and a welcoming smile.
"On the job," he turned down reluctantly. "Hopin' you could pass a bit of help, though."
"Something fishy?" the barman's normally sober yet cheering expression turned wary. Couldn't blame the fella, if he started turning snitch on the lowlifes and hucksters he knew, his pub would shutdown inside of a week.
"Would I do that to you?" he smiled charmingly. Deco knew better, the man saw him more than his gal ever had. Better listener, too. With a better smile. But he was on a job and needed to focus on the mark. Hell of a night. "Just something odd."
"In this town?" Relieved, MacRae set to wiping out a nearby mug. "Shorter list would be what's on the up."
"This would be out of the gates even for the City," Zimmerman leaned further over the bar. "Anyone spinning a tale about a wolf struttin' through the streets tonight?"
"Huh," his wiping slowed as Deco gave a considering look. "Y'mean Lucky was right about somethin' in his undoubtedly short life?"
"Maybe so," he glanced around to try and catch a glimpse of the notoriously ill-fated shmoe. "What's he been saying?"
"Just that he saw a wolf on his way over. Scared him enough that he needed four pints and a hearty toss back to get out on the streets again."
"Damn," Zimmerman cursed. "Then I missed him."
"By at least an hour," MacRae confirmed.
"Where'd he see it at?"
"On his way in, corner of Elm and 32nd. Far as he knows it was heading west, which is why he legged it east. And here."
"Guess it's as good a place as any to start," he slid a bit of dough across the bar. "If you hear anything hot, I'd appreciate it if you gave my place a call. I'll get the message."
"Thought Freelander was done with being your answering service?" MacRae grinned. The showdowns between him and the landlord's gal were well-known.
"She complains, but she keeps on doing it. What's a fella to do?" he let a grin twist his features in return then headed towards the door. Pulling his fedora further over his face, he faded into the night once more.
Midnight and not a clue to his name. Discouraged, Zimmerman turned towards his stomping ground, slumping into the barely warm foyer as the clock struck.
"You. Detective."
Never had he been so glad to see an angry dame in his life. If she had her girdle in a twist, it meant Deco hadn't let him down. He had a lead. Now he just needed to get it away from the coppery doll who looked as like to knock his lights out as to pass on a message.
"My fair Miss Freelander," he tried his best smile.
"Don't you pull any of your slick with me, buster," she stomped over to him, waving a note in his direction. "You think I'm your secretary or something? This is the last time and I'm not blowing smoke!"
"Loud and clear, doll face," he snatched the note from her hand before any harm could fall upon it. "Got the message. Loud and Clear."
He missed her rebuttal as his eyes fell on her angry scrawl. 'Docks. Seemed to be settling down. Growled at Stiff and sent him flying here. You and Mac talking in code now, Detective?' He assumed that last part was the Freelander gal's addition.
"Thanks, doll," he called absently over his shoulder as he headed back out into the wind. "You've been swell."
Whatever answer she meant him to hear was lost as he pointed his feet towards the docks and began to work out a plan. Once he set his orbs on the pooch, he'd need to get a shout out to the leggy dame. Given the seedy locale the pup had decided to set up shop, it was going to take a bit of leg work to find a telephone. He'd picked a hell of a glamorous profession.
Two hours later, he hung up on the growling man who'd answered the doll's number. Probably his grunt had meant that he'd get the skinny to the dame. Either that, or Zimmerman would shortly be floating down the river on his own float. Dead man's float, that is.
Deciding to be optimistic, he bought a finger of whiskey, neat, and tossed it back. Might as well meet his fate a little tight, it'd go over better than straight at this point. Giving a nod to the leery fella behind the bar, he retrieved his fedora and went to see if dawn would come for him again.
He waited just outside of what he decided to call 'the kill zone' and stepped back into the shadows in case any mugs out for some night action happened to amble on by. When the long car pulled up on the street and killed the engine, he began to think that a strategic retreat might be on the cards, until a leg that he happened to have memorized already that evening slid out of the back seat.
He let her case the scene looking for him a moment longer, then stepped out of the shadows when she glanced in his direction.
"Nice carriage, Doc," he nodded over at the sleek car. "Roomy enough for your pup?"
"It shall be, if we can get to him," the dame raised her chin with a hint of challenge in her eyes. "You do know where he is, don't you?"
"Down there," he thumbed over towards the sheds huddled near the neck of the pier. "Doesn't sound too willing to be friendly, I gotta say."
"You can stay here," she said in a tone that was clearly used to being obeyed.
"It's my case, doll," he corrected, heading past her towards the sheds. "And I never have sent a gal in to do the dirty work alone and I don't plan on starting up the habit tonight."
"Very well," she caught up to him. "But do stay behind me. He knows me, not you. And the name is Doctor Magnus. Not 'doll.'"
"Sure thing, Doc," he agreed easily.
They paced up to the scene in silence, until they were close enough that the growling started up, then a few steps closer until Zimmerman was on a knife's edge waiting to toss this crazy dame behind him when whatever monster they were chasing attacked. Just before he felt ready to toss her over his shoulder and book like hell, she came to a halt.
"Henry?" she called.
What kind of loon names a dog 'Henry'? The question slid across his mind.
"It's alright. It's Dr. Magnus. Please come out of there. It'll be alright."
He'd never been much of a dog person. Near shaking with tension in the dark hours before morning, he was glad of that decision. In hindsight, he should have stuck with it.
Suddenly, a dark shape moved across the doorway of one of the sheds. Before he could focus on it enough to make out more than that it was the biggest dog he'd ever heard of, the thing came careening through the space separating it from them. On reflex, he moved, tossing the Doc behind him and pulling a knife. He heard cries from the Doc and a growl so close it sounded like a roar and then nothing at all.
His head hurt. More than that, it felt like he'd gone on a bender so tight that he'd wake up both hungover and still drunk. What kinda night had he done for?
"Stay still," a cool voice spoke near his ear.
Until he'd heard the sentence, Zimmerman hadn't even known he'd been moving. Once he did, though, he kept it up. Maybe the doll at his ear knew what was shaking last night.
Prying open an eyelid, he looked up into a deep blue pair of glims right above him and the whole lost evening fell into place like a sack of bricks.
"The dog?" he struggled to sit up, only to take in the sight of his own office. "What the hell? Sorry, Doc," he apologized and winced at the same time, a hand going to his head.
"Quite all right. And Henry's safe now. Although it would have been better had you not felt the need to toss me out of the way," it sounded like a lecture, but the dame had a glint in her eye that didn't seem too upset.
"All in a day's work, Doc," he grinned as much as his head would let him.
"Yes, well I think," he focused in on the lips moving closer towards him with every passing second.
"Yeah?"
Her lips hovered by his ear, breath whispering over his face, "That you should wake up now."
"What?"