Why do stories like this always start in a bar? Well, this one starts in a bar. And a broad walking in. Knows the guy's name.

"Hello, Mister Drake," she says. She's gorgeous. Yeah, a real knockout. Done to the nines, as the saying goes. The hair is straight out of Hairdo Daily and the dress is this minutes fashion.

"Well, hello doll-face." I have always liked that one.

A little background. No, I'm not the bartender, I'm a drunk patron. A private dick on my night off, only I'd started my night off around noon. It was past four o'clock and my speech probably didn't sound as good as it reads. I also repeated myself more than was absolutely necessary. I just remembered that.

"Mister Drake. I have a job for you. It pays well. Very well. Come out to the car. We can talk on the way to my apartment." Just like that. Short sentences. Terse.

I considered. Nothing like money to make you sober. Or to make you think that maybe you're sober. Looking over the broad I noticed what I had missed while she was walking in, probably because I hadn't seen her. She stood at the arm of my stool looking like she owned the place. She probably would look the same way walking to the gallows if there were still such a thing.

"Sure. Where we going?" I said, admiring the graceful motion of her behind as she walked through the nearly empty room and into the glaring sunlight outside. I was squinting and bumped into her standing on the curb. I could finally see a car, a limousine, gliding up to the curb.

"You are going to my apartment and get cleaned up. Then, we will be visiting the offices of Doctor Stanley Milway.

I burped, tasting Drambuie and happy hour meatballs.

"Thanks, Joe," I said to the smartly tailored giant holding the door for the lady and me. We climbed inside and suddenly my lights went out.

I came to, sitting in the back seat of the limousine with the dame beside me. She was taking her hand away from the sleep field generator built into the seat. A rotten trick if you ask me.

"I hope that the rest has done you well, Mister Drake." What is it about a dame that makes her think that sleep is curative. My head hurt. It always happens when I drink during the day and don't sleep a good ten hours afterward. The same thing happens when I drink at night.

"You could have asked."

We got out. The sidewalk was one of those soft types. Made so rich folks don't get impact injuries while they're playing "exercise". There was a high hedge hiding most of the place. Must have cost a bundle. The gate was wrought iron bars, woven with a diamond shape in the center and embossed with the hotel's coat of arms. I asked for an alcohol killer.

"Why, Mister Drake! Don't you have some? In your line of work?" She said it casually. She said everything casually. And the short sentences.

"Forget it for now." I tried to shrug it off and checked my watch. It was past six in the evening. This didn't make sense so I hit the recalc button.

4:45:22

7/14/55

P.S.T.

We weren't in New York any more. We were probably in L.A.

Doctor Milway. I had heard of him even back home. The guy must be worth billions. I remembered that the guy had come up with some new Get Young Quick scheme. The type had come and gone over the past few years, usually ending up busted for using buffered mutogens or carcinogens or what have you. One guy had pulled a Jimmy Jones, declaring that the cure had been found, demonstrating it on himself, and then calling all of his patients together at the Chicago Princess Hotel, to have the lot of them die at the stroke of midnight starting the Doctor's birthday. The Law found out that the toxin was the same as an earlier deadly cure but tailored with a time tag.

Milway's way was supposed to be effective and so cheap that even a private dick could afford it, if he would just sign a contract to pay two percent of his life's income to the good Doctor. Even if it turned out to be a scam, the Doctor was already set for life.

The limo zoomed off and the good woman led me through the gate. Face and voice recognition. Inside was a hundred yards of lush garden that turned into a door after about the third step. Culture a hologram with two yards of real greenery. Expensive, but loads cheaper than the real thing a football field long.

"Just a moment, Mister Drake." The dish stuffed her finger in a depression and the door opened. I recognized a top-of-the-line gene desequencer/compiler. The door looked like a door. The walls looked like walls. Just the same, I felt sorry for anyone who tried to break in.

"Hold on to the rail, Mister Drake."

The short hall canted, twisted and dropped. The dame's place stood open at the other end. I wondered where someone unwanted would end up, but the Lady was a recognized resident.

Lots of white and probably natural wood in her apartment. Not that you'd know the difference by looking but I had gotten an impression of this dame's tastes.

"Please take off your clothes. The shower is in that room."

"Thanks," As I stripped off my grey pinstripe the dame didn't watch. She seemed more interested in pouring herself a drink than in me. I took my shower.

No nozzle. The water sprayed from the whole ceiling. I got cleaned and put my head in the razor, setting it for five o'clock. She was waiting outside with a robe. I put it on and thanked her.

"Now, Miss." I ate the 'killer she had left for me and chased it with orange juice.

"Yes, Mister Drake?" The dame had seen me undressed and still sounded casual. I thought I must be losing my appeal. She probably didn't understand my grin. Whatever, she didn't react.

"I'm wondering what it is you want me to find for you. You see, that's the only time that a Dick gets hired is when someone can't find something she wants. So what is it you want, dollface?"

She didn't twitch. She didn't react. It was like watching a poker pro bluffing or bidding. She was smooth.

"Seven hours ago Kevin, that's Doctor Milway, was kidnapped. I don't know why or by whom. Since I am his," No flicker of hesitation. "Senior corporate assistant. I am the one who will be contacted. You aren't known locally. Your job is to find the Doctor."

"What makes you sure I want to take the case? You gotta know that my fees are high. When I work, that is." I was broke so I was bluffing. I only did it for style. This dame knew everything there was to know about me.

"You're broke." Bullseye.

"You muffed your last job." Ouch!

"You need to redeem yourself." Not true personally, but professionally speaking a dick needs clients.

"And I'm paying triple. Plus expenses." Plus expenses. I was getting to see her point.

"Alright, but I get a week in advance." She just sat there like it meant less than nothing to her.

"Plus expenses, also in advance." Nothing.

"And free access to company documents." Now I had her attention.

The lady got up and started to pace. "That will not be possible. The particulars of the treatment are secret."

"And speaking of treatments, I'll need to do the full course. You see, your boss's kidnapper could be anyone on the inside and your operation is very limited, geographically. That gives me a good reason for snooping around and by the time I have some answers noone will know who is asking the questions. A younger face, you see?" It was a gamble since you don't get something for nothing, but sometimes you can get something thrown in cheap. Maybe that nap did me some good after all.

"Except for me. Also, the people who perform the procedure." Unshaved is how smart broads make me feel.

"You'll stay here tonight." walking toward the door. I've rented the second floor of the Elgin. That's 5-3-2-9,"

"Hey, wait." I jumped for a pencil and pad from the table. A number 2 and wood fibre paper, this broad was RICH. "5-3-2-9," I said, scribbling.

"Seven Thousand." she finished, finally smiling. And leaving.

The click of the latch and I noticed the lingering smell of her in the air.

The center of the coffee table held a cube next to my empty juice glass. Punching up the table, I had the reader bring up the basic picture and decided I would work only until dark.

Again, I woke up. Unexpected, like.

"Cripes." I said to my hangover. Alcohol killer is well named. In any case, I was sober, awake, and knew a whole lot more in the morning than the night before. And an orange juice would help my head. The bar selection held everything from your down and dirty favorites to Moet '54. I dialed O-J.

Checking the document cube, it seems that the good Doctor was very rich. I could add another two or three "very"'s. Here was enough money to buy a small country with change left over for gas.

I had linked up with my personal snoops and checked out just how well the goes-outtas and the goes-intas matched. Then, I put a trace on the accounts listed in the cube to test their validity. Over the next few hours, I had climbed up every ledger beanpole, slid across each transaction ladder rung and back down all the hundreds of column total stairsteps of Professor Doctor Kevin Hironomous Milway, MD, PHD, FACOG (during his more entertaining hours). And come up with no interesting results. Which, in itself, is very interesting.

Corporations install glitches into their financial statements. This keeps human accountants both on their toes and happy. It is done to let the IRS periodically fine a company to maintain their reason for existance. Once in a great while, it is done accidentally. Most often, these little bugs distract an auditor from the real moneymakers that go totally unnoticed. Not here. It occured to me that there exists one galaxy-class rodent of profound odor, and his home is Milway Labs.

Thinking whistfully about a Russian Nail, short rocks glass with a shot of Drambuie and a shot of Stoli, unstirred, I walked back into the shower and met Doctor Samuel Nellich. Sam had met a blunt object, fallen, and would not be getting up on his own ever again. I checked the body, which was somewhat cool, not long dead. My watch diagnosed dead at the scene, but I had disabled its AutoCopCaller long since. Instead, I speed buttoned the Lady.

The corpse looked young and I felt dirty, recalling that Dr. Nellich was over twice my age. I didn't envy him his good looks.

Updated January 24, 1998, 10:52pm. shawn_h@sprynet.com