It was one of those storybook dark and stormy nights in the city of New York. The sort of nights that make you particularly inclined to lose your thoughts while staring at the rain dripping against your window. Or perhaps at your half-empty glass of bourbon as you wait for your cigarette to flicker out. To be honest, I wouldn't know. No one likes to hear about a German immigrant with too much time on his hands, and too much alcohol in his system.

Of course, boozehounds seem to be rising in number, especially around this part of New York. People too poor to eat a good meal down cheap liquor instead. Can't imagine what they would think of me back in Germany if I took that up. And I've got a brother to look after. A brother who thinks I'm too much of a daisy to handle factory work, but a brother nonetheless.

Besides, the only reason we've got a decent place to stay is because of the Jones'. Managed to scrounge an apartment space for us above their diner, so long as we pay rent when we can and stay out of trouble. I can't bring in most of the rent myself because of Gilbert's refusal, but I manage to give Mrs. Jones a hand with her baking, and she appreciates that just fine. I balance out the checkbook for the diner too, as Mr. Jones swears up and down he isn't so good with math.

There's also another way I make a little bit of cash on the side, but it's nothing Mrs. Jones nor my brother would like to hear. Don't get me wrong. I'm not a bootlegger or some sort of gunman for the mafia. I do what most folks around here would call "private investigating", but the most a young kid like me can get are lost pets, nicked jewelry, things like that. Wasn't my idea, by the by, and I'll get hell from Mrs. Jones if she ever finds out what I'm doing, but Amelia Jones is one stubborn girl. Said she was getting bored just waitressing all the time, and she noticed how good I am at finding things around the house, so here we are.

To be honest, they're just a messy family, and I'm just good at organizing, but I don't want to argue with her. She's a tougher nut than her brother, and Alfred would fly off the handle if he ever found out I'm toting his kid sister around the alleys of New York City looking for missing dogs.

The lights out on the street are flickering again, now that I notice, stretching from my seat at the desk. I've been counting funds for what feels like hours, yet I can't quite tell how late it is by the sky. The clock we brought from home sits near the window, and I notice it's been about two hours past supper. A few more hours and Gilbert would be home.

Which was why the knock at the door was unexpected, and frankly, I'm glad no one's in this room to see me jump in my seat. "Come in," I call, shuffling my papers just in the case that it's Mr. Jones wanting to see my progress.

It isn't, and I expect this would be the part of those new detective novels where the narrator describes a "bombshell blonde" slinking into their office, her face covered by the shadows in the room. Smoke from their cigarette rises, and in one puff, a sultry whisper emerges from their lips.

This is reality, however, and instead, I'm face to face with Alfred F. Jones, blonde, but tragically far from a "bombshell", and the only smoke in the room is the stench from his work clothes. I eye the grease stains on his apron wearily. He obviously had clean up duty at the diner and didn't think to clean himself up before traveling to my apartment. Perhaps his greasy fingerprints on my door handle could be used for practice, I think, gritting my teeth at the idea of a slippery knob.

"Lud!" he says, as if pronouncing the remaining three letters of my name is a struggle for him, "Can't be healthy to stay caged up in this room all day. Have you moved this week?"

I open my mouth to retort, but my peripheral vision catches the several empty Coke bottles on the floor beside my chair. I could still make an argument, really, as Alfred isn't the brightest bulb in the box, but eventually I'd have to remove myself from this chair, and God knows those bottles are coming with me. Instead, I change the subject. "Have you washed the grease out of your hair this week?"

Alfred's lips curve upwards, "Look who's talking. I don't think I've seen your hair any other way."

He's got a point, and I offer a smile. Not a kind one, mind you. "It's Pomade. Tell me, what brand are you using? Hamburger Grease?"

I'm sure he would have offered up a comment had my door not swung into his back, but thankfully Amelia has the sense to interrupt him. Or rather the timing. Either way, Alfred was currently hunched over and wheezing, and that was perfectly alright with me.

"Lud!" Clearly the entire Jones family had issues with pronouncing Ludwig.

Amelia is remarkably like her brother in looks. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a round face, a wide smile. The only differences were the curls that bounced against her cheeks, the head of height between her and Alfred, and the few years that separated them. Amelia was three years Alfred's junior, making her sixteen, but she surely doesn't act it. At least, not around me. Alfred always makes jabs at her about hanging around me so often, and to be honest, I can't imagine why she does it. It isn't like I'm one of her school playmates, and I'm four years her senior.

Regardless, Amelia doesn't mind dragging me around the dirtiest alleys in New York City. Says it's a sign of friendship that we can do these sorts of things together. I don't know about that.

Amelia's hands thunk onto my desk, rattling my near-empty bottle of Coke. As per usual, her nose is inches away from my own when she sings, "We've got a case!"

I shoot a glance at Alfred, still nursing his back. He's heard what Amelia said, but I don't think it's processed yet. Amelia notices my gaze, and I can see the tell-tale tightening in her shoulders. I cough. "A case of what?"

"Yeah, 'Melia." Alfred says, giving the both of us a dirty look, which, quite frankly, I don't deserve, "Case of what?"

She bites at her lip, looking at me for the answer. I shrug my shoulders slightly. "Case of flour?" Amelia tries, looking sheepish.

Alfred's eyes narrowed further. Perhaps it was the lighting in here. Or, perhaps, he was finally catching on to Amelia and I. Either way, there was only one lamp in here. Sort of claustrophobic really.

"What are you two up to?" Alfred has the sense to draw himself back up and cross his arms.

If I didn't know Alfred for what he was, I'd be hot under the collar at that look. A typical elder-brother glare that I've only seen from Gilbert twice in my life. Neither times for good reason. It isn't my fault I'd rather clean than hang around downtown.

Amelia's feet shuffle, a lip pout growing. She knows just the tricks to pull on Alfred. Really, we all do, but I'll be six feet under before I'm caught pouting at anyone. If anything, Alfred would just break into hysterics. Which might be a nice distraction, but I'm not sure my pride is worth the risk.

Apparently though, Alfred isn't in the mood for Amelia's tricks. "Spill," he snaps, jerking his head.

"Well," Amelia says, playing at a curl, "We're...making call-girl appointments?"

It's suddenly very hot in my small office. I loosen my tie.

Alfred's eyebrows shoot up, "You expect me to believe he'd do something like that? Ludwig?"

I suppose I'd be relieved he's sticking up for me, but I'm not sure I like the way he said that. "Amelia," I try, "We should tell him."

She looks none too pleased about that. In fact, she looks like she'd love to hang me. "He's my Sugar Daddy."

Wouldn't mind a fan in this room, now that I think about it.

Alfred snorts. "Right. Beilschmidt, are you in cahoots with my sister?"

I've never had great luck, but today seems to be testing that, considering the door opens for a third time that day, and it isn't Gilbert.

Alfred doesn't notice, and chides, "At a loss for words?" until his head turns, and I can see him trip over himself as he holds back a yelp. Heels click softly as they approach my desk, and my eyes trace their petite frame upwards from their blackened dress coat. I'd make eye contact if I could find them, but sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat prevent my analysis. Her silvery-blonde hair trickles from her shoulder when her lips speak, "Mr. Beilschmidt."

You'd think I'd be accustomed to speaking to women by now with Amelia for a partner, but there's a large difference between her, and...whomever seems to know my name. "That would be me," I mumble out, and my foot makes the mistake of kicking over those Coke bottles. One rolls to the window. No one moves to grab it. I can't remember what moving feels like.

Apparently confirming my name was an unsatisfactory response, as her mouth twitches softly. Considering it didn't sound like a question to begin with, I can't help but agree. Ya blew it, Beilschmidt. What would your brother think?

Amelia breaks the growing silence. "This is Miss. Arlov...Arlovsk...?"

"Arlovskaya," she says, but there's a bite to her words. Could be the accent. My throat dries as I remember my own.

Again, Amelia seems unfazed. Her hands clap together. "She's here about a case!"

I hear myself say, "Is that so?" but I'm nearly sure no one else does. Something tells me she isn't looking for a lost cat.

For better or worse, we can all hear Alfred croak, "What the Hell is going on?"

Arlovskaya's sunglasses click as she folds them into her pockets. Her eyelashes flicker. "You are a detective, yes?"

"I... find dogs, mostly," I mutter, as if that qualifies as an answer.

Amelia pips up. "Real dogs! Pigs! Jailbirds!"

"No!" Alfred looks homicidal as my voice cracks. I clear my throat. "No, really," I explain, straightening my tie as Arlovskaya scans me, "Pets. Missing things. Common work."

This settles terribly with everyone in the room. Except for the dust, which, apparently, settles on it's own in this office. Why couldn't I have taken up cleaning houses for extra money?

Arlovskaya bites at her lip, smearing her red lipstick, but her eyes remain strong. She looks as though she might say something, but then the next thing we all hear is the sharp swipe of a knife finding it's way into my desk. I hesitate to move. Her hand grips the handle. I can't tell if Alfred's afraid or mildly infatuated. Scratch that. I can't tell if both the Jones siblings are afraid or infatuated. Incredible.

I look up at her slowly, wondering if I should raise my arms in surrender. I refrain. She speaks. "You're a detective, yes?"

"By the textbook definition," I say, "I suppose I am. Would you mind removing your knife?"

Arlovskaya's head tilts as if I've said something funny. I don't say funny things. I'm German. The knife slips back out of the wood, and she pockets it, pulling out an old photograph in replacement. She flicks it towards me. "I need a detective."

The picture is of a young man, presumably around my age, with dangling mouse-brown hair, and a slim face. I'd say he was Slavic, but it didn't seem to fit. He's got a sheepish smile, and I can't help but worry we aren't being hired to catch him in some criminal act.

As if on cue with my thoughts, Arlovskaya says, "He's dead."

Alfred clutches at his chest. Amelia looks fascinated.

I think I feel a stomachache coming on.