8. Cheribelle #6
“You know, I was just telling my partner here, John Jacob Schmidt—the Jingleheimer is silent—that taking a six-month sabbatical really affects all your connections once you come back to this line of work. I guess everyone thinks you’re dead when you’re gone that long.
Don’t suppose you’ve heard of anyone dropping juicy contracts lately to get back in the game, have you? ”
My head was beginning to ache from looking for people who were emotionally open or vulnerable enough to risk having a conversation with.
And even though I made sure I wasn’t going up to complete sociopaths or people ready to shank us at the drop of a hat, I could tell Paul was growing more nervous with every passing second.
Not that I could blame him. I understood that my methods grated against his natural instincts, but hey, we hadn’t gotten killed on my watch!
Hadn’t gotten killed yet.
Still, playing it cautious didn’t seem to be getting us anywhere, because not only did no one know who dropped the contract, no one seemed to know how to pick it up either. I guess the assassins were all out hunting for Jackson and we had somehow missed the boat.
But that didn’t make sense. Surely there had to be some latecomers.
So, I decided to play a little fast and loose and approached someone leaking a bit more of danger than any of the other ne’er-do-wells.
The smaller man sat by himself at one of the farther points of the street, struggling to tune the banged-up guitar on his lap. Although his shoulders were slight, violent chemtrails of malevolence drifted through craggy clouds of his concentration.
“Need help?” I asked. I could feel Paul bristling behind me. I knew I was pushing it, but sometimes it was worth it to risk it for the biscuit.
“No, I’m just fine.”
At this point, I was used to being rebuffed right off the bat, so I turned on my charm for the umpteenth time and tried to connect with a criminal on a personal level.
Perhaps it should have been a little surprising or even disconcerting how many of those on the fringes of the law had some neurodivergent tendencies, but that was a conversation for another day.
Preferably when I wasn’t investigating a violent murder.
“You sure? Because that’s a parlor guitar, isn’t it? You’re struggling with the short scale because it generally does better with higher tension strings to prevent that buzzing and keep the tone, or you can tune it to an open key, like open A. Maybe even a whole step up.”
Hah! Who would have thought three years of band camp would come in so handy? Me. That’s why I went .
Fuck yeah, band camp.
“You know about parlor guitars?”
“Just casually,” I said, sitting down in front of the stoop and motioning for Paul to do the same. He, however, chose to stand, his arms crossed over that scrumptious chest of his like a guard dog.
“Would you like me to show you what I mean?”
The man gripped the instrument closer to him, so I thought I should clarify.
“I don’t mean hold it or anything, I just meant point or direct your hands, so you can do your thing.”
“Huh. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you help me? I ain’t no one.”
“Do you have to be someone for me to wanna help with a cool guitar?”
“Round here? Yeah. Nobody does anything for free.”
I wanted to tell him that I did, but that wasn’t true. And even though it was difficult for someone to lie to me, something told me this guy also had a sense for such things.
“I guess I’m hoping that if I prove to you I’m not a threat, you might be willing to help me.”
“What kind of help we talking about?”
This time, I gave no elaborate cover story. “We’re trying to find someone who has information on a contract that went out. A hit on a rich wolf heir.”
He nodded, his weary eyes filled with a slate-gray derision that also filled the air around him. “Nope. Don’t know a thing about that.”
“Oh well.” I shrugged. “Wanna tune your guitar anyway?”
His gaze shifted from me to Paul, then he nodded.
It was kind of fun to watch his long, slender fingers move across the frets, tightening, listening, then tightening again when I pointed or gave him direction.
In the end, it was less me telling him what to do and more the two of us problem-solving together: him the physical force, and me with some experience dealing with antique guitars.
It had been a bit of a hyperfixation my junior year of high school, and while I’d dropped it eighteen months later, I was grateful for everything I had learned.
In fact, it felt a bit full circle to pass the knowledge on. Even if it was to a criminal stranger.
“Would ya listen to that?” I said once we had the guitar sounding like we wanted it. “Think you can manage that on your own from now on?”
When he nodded, I stood, knees protesting. Internally, I scolded them. I was too young for them to be popping like that, even if I had abused them with skateboarding for most of my young life.
And currently when you were running late for an appointment.
“All right, we’re off then. Hope things go well for you…”
“Angel,” he answered finally, and the irony wasn’t lost on me.
“Right. Nice to meet you, Angel.”
I turned to Paul, whose patience was wearing thin around the edges. I felt bad for him. I knew he was anxious to get any momentum with our investigation, but so far it had been strikeout after strikeout.
“You need to talk to the Whisper.”
I froze, then whipped around to the slip of a man. “Pardon?”
“The Whisper will know about the contract.” He stood, placing the parlor guitar in a beat-up case. “I gotta go.”
“Thanks, Angel. Be safe.”
“You too.”
He turned around and headed into the building.
I looked at Paul and nearly squealed with excitement.
We had our first lead!