Inspired: Try by P!nk.

Try

I reached into the drawer, looking for a flask and finding a pistol instead. It was cold against my fingers and I traced the edges with morbid fascination. It was sleek and new, with clean lines and smooth channels. I had bought it secondhand but you would never know by looking at the damned piece.

I let my fingers dust over the pistol and come to a rest on the bottle of alcohol: both were tools of the trade in the detective racket and so I kept them in the same drawer. The flask sloshed as I dragged it out into the open.

It was almost midnight and I wasn't expecting any clients. I could afford to drink.

Hell, I couldn't afford to not drink. It had been that kind of day…

I knocked it back with a grunt of satisfaction, slouching in the old wooden chair and swinging my legs up onto the desk. It was covered in paperwork and half of it was even important.

I still didn't care.

The alcohol burnt as it slipped down my throat and I tried to remember what it was… Some sort of bourbon, maybe? It was something dark and flavourful in any case. It dulled the pain in my wrist and that was enough.

I was a dead end detective with arthritis at the age of thirty five… Man, I was living the life.

I took another sip and watched the seconds tick past, promising myself an early night for once.

So, of course, someone knocked on my door.

"Uhm… Hello? Is someone there?"

I sighed and tossed the flask back into the drawer. It clinked against the piece.

"Yes, come in."

The door creaked as the young man opened it, peeking around the etched windowpane and biting his lip. He was fair and blonde, with soft eyes and softer mannerisms. He was twenty four, maybe twenty five years old, and out of his element.

I gestured to the armchair in front of me and waited for him to take a seat. It was also second hand and, this time, it was obvious. The fabric was an orange that might have been red once upon a time and covered in suspicious stains and rips.

I liked it anyway.

"Are you, uhm… Are you Detective Beilschmidt?"

He fidgeted with the wedding ring on his left hand.

"Sometimes," I said, cocking an eyebrow. My name was on the door. Who else would I be, really? "It depends. Who wants to know?"

"Oh, uhm, my name is Matthew."

"Do you have a last name, Matthew?"

He blushed. He was so far outside of his element… Which meant that I was in mine.

"Uh, no. No. Just Matthew."

I snorted but let it go.

"Alright, 'Just Matthew'. What can I do for you?"

Matthew continued to twist the ring on his finger and squirm in his seat. I waited. There was no point in pressuring a client like Matthew. He would either speak in his own time or chicken out altogether. I had seen it often enough to recognize the signs; pale, sweating, timid.

He had come here alone and he was still questioning his decision.

So I waited.

The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles, fluttering the paperwork on the desk. The headlights of a car streaked past the window, casting shadows that danced and set the scene as dark and disturbing.

"I…" He started before pausing with a frown. He tried again. "I think that my wife might be cheating on me."

I resisted the urge to snort again. A marital dispute… How pedestrian…

"And what, 'Just Matthew', gave you that idea."

He scooted a little further forward in the armchair. It looked too big for him, or perhaps he just seemed too small. His shoulders were hunched like he wanted to disappear.

"She's just been… She goes out in the evening and comes back after midnight, right? And she, uh, looks different after. She smells different."

"And have you confronted her?"

"Not… Not quite. She's been very defensive." He worried his lip some more, mindless of the swelling and chapping. "I don't want to upset her."

"She obviously doesn't feel the same way." It was insensitive and I should have held my tongue, but it was true. I had seen this movie too many times not to recognize the signs. I had to speak up.

He flinched.

"I… Yes, I suppose so…" Matthew lowered his gaze even further and studied his shoes.

Damn.

"Look," I ran my hands through my hair and leaned against my desk, tapping the pile of file folders in front of me. "I'm sorry. It's just… I've seen this a thousand times before. She's playing you."

"… I know."

Another car drove past the window and painted my office in strange patterns.

"Then forget her."

"That's your advice?"

"No, that's free. My advice will cost you."

"… How much?"

"Two beers."

"What?"

"It'll cost you two beers at the pub down the street."

Matthew finally looked up from his shoes and blinked. He seemed surprised.

That made two of them.

"… My wife is cheating on me and you want to go out for drinks?"

I thought about and decided that, yes, that was exactly what I wanted to do.

"Mmhmm."

"I'm not sure that's entirely appropriate."

"Tell me, 'Just Matthew', do you love your wife?"

"… What?"

"Do you love your wife?"

He twisted the ring on his finger.

"I'm… I'm not sure anymore."

"Alright. Then you have nothing to lose. Come to the pub with me and I'll make it all better."

Matthew stared me down, as lost and unsure as when he had first walked into my office… Maybe even more so. I met his gaze. His lavender eyes were dim with unhappiness and I wondered how much of it was due to his wayward wife. I swore that I would look into the situation, whether or not I ended up taking the case.

I wasn't sure why I cared. I just did.

"Do you promise?" His voice came out as a whisper and I wondered again what this woman had put him through... It must have been hell.

"I can't promise," I said, because I could not and I refused to lie, "but I'll try."

I stood up and held out my hand to him. He smiled. The expression was tight around the corners but it was a step in the right direction.

"… Okay."

He grabbed my hand.

Author's Notes:

Uh… I guess Gilbert just really wanted that early night, eh? That, or he was hitting on his client, which is bad for business (but oh so good for the soul). He cares, in his own backwards way.

I'm not sure why this song made me think of a noir detective scene but it did, damn it! Now I want to work on Black and White or Hack and Slash… Both are on my livejournal account at the moment because I have a horrible habit of starting stories and then wandering off… (Me? Nooo…)

Is this the first piece I have posted in first person point-of-view? It might be. And the contractions are purposeful. It is a monologue, of sorts.