A stranger walked into my office. He didn't knock. He was tall, in his early twenties, with the long muscular look of someone who was a competitive swimmer or fencer, or some other sport that children of the wealthy do at their Ivy colleges.
I didn't know what he was doing in a run down private-eye's office. Usually when his kind get caught up in a sex scandal like when a hooker gets found dead on the stained floor of a motel room, the Senator as daddy calls a DA who rearranges the furniture and cleans the sheets.
The kid pulled a gold ring off his finger and dropped it on my desk.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "That I'm in trouble, and why would a young guy like me see a guy like you."
"I would never think that," I lied. "What's with the ring?"
"It's my daddy's. It's worth quite a lot. Maybe, $10,000. More importantly, it was once my grandfather's, and then my father's, and now it is mine, a graduation gift. You're a private-eye, I want you to find the ring."
He pulled from his vest pocket an envelope stuffed with money. "This is your retainer. I pay $1,000 a day. Just find the ring. No questions. I'll call you."
He walked out of the office and didn't shut the door behind him. I'd wait for his call. See what was up. In the meantime, I'd try on the ring every day. It fit perfect on my little finger, like it was made for me. Just as I wore strange trouble like a designer suit.
To Be Continued...
LIFE OF A POET - JOHN BUCHANAN
6 hours ago