- Chapter One

It's been a week of whispers in the Office City. When it gets quiet like this, I get nervous. When I get nervous I get ready. I've got a Swingline 747 that I've modified to hold 500 1/2" staples and a Glock 21 that does just fine with it's standard magazine. Thirteen .45 shells and no complaints. A 1.75 litre bottle of Wild Turkey and a small pharmacy keep me company.

I'm too busy drinking to get up and close the Venetian blinds in the only window of the rent- by-the -week Spill Lane hotel that's serving as my office. Closing them would only ruin the striped lighting effect anyway, so I put my walking dogs up on my cardboard desk, pull down the brim on my old fedora and wait for the pills to kick in. With any luck, it'll be tomorrow soon.

I'm flirting with a dirtnap when someone knocks. I stir, knocking back what I hope is an upper with another shot.

"It's open".

The doorknob jiggles.

A woman's voice tells me it's not. Goddamnit, I'm too wasted to get up.

"Ok, then", I say. "Just move a few feet down the hall for a sec . You might wanna cover your ears".

I reach for the Glock and open the door with one shot. Two, if you count the bourbon celebration.

"Now it's open".

The total package walks into my office, introducing herself one part at a time. Nice to meet you all, I think. She's six feet of stacked Aryan perfection. In the background, I swear I hear Wagner playing. She stops just inside what's left of the door.

"Are you Mr. Bukowski? Bond Bukowski?"

" Bond Bukowski, Secret Temp, at yer service. What can I do for you, doll-face?"

"Well, it's a long story, but the Agency said you could help..."

The Agency. It's always a long story with those bastards.

"You better come in and sit down. "

I manage to stand up. I don't have much in the way of furniture, so I stack a bunch of newspapers on top of a ten-gallon kerosene can. It oughta keep the leaky fuel off her fully-loaded skirt. Drug-induced partial paralysis does the same for my hands.
She sits down, looking nervously at the floor. She's a classy broad, but she's a scared kid inside.

I light two filterless Camels and hand one to her. Poor gal. She's shaking like an AA first-timer and drops it on the floor. Then she starts screaming and stamping her feet like she's the whole marching band. Non-smoker, I guess. I'm getting ready to offer her a drink , but she's already chugging straight from the jug. Good thing I always pull out those little plastic pour-filters as soon as I buy a new bottle.

"Gaaak....Mr. Bukowski...aak...my name 's Esther. Esther Toybox. I need help, and the Agency said you were the one to see."

"I assume they told you I don't come cheap."

"Actually, they said you'd work for Food Stamps and free drinks."

"And expenses."

"Of course."

She launches into a long story about some some missing documents. I can't tell from looking into her eyes if she's telling the truth-I'm staring at her chest the whole time.

When she's done, I write an address on the back of someone else's business card.

"Here's what I need you to do. Go to this address. Ask for Mel. Tell him you want to pay off my bar tab. After you do that , come on back. I'll find those documents."

She looks at me with eyes as pale and blue as original Crest toothpaste.

" A-a alright Mr. Bukowski. I trust you."

"The name is Bond ."

As soon as she leaves I call the Agency.


(to be continued, maybe)