Private Investigator

John Farris had his back turned to the door when a walk-in noisily tripped through the entranceway. The tiny brass bells loosely tied over the hinge clamored. He had been at the window behind his desk peeking between the white slats of the drawn blinds at the gathering thunder clouds over the tourist laden sidewalks of the resort city of Virginia Beach, Virginia. It had been a long and grueling day of zilch for prospective clients and wasted time spent over unpaid bills. Boredom had set in and he had to fight to stay awake. On top of the unemployment line on his horizon he had been hit with formal letter form the lawyer who owned the building where he rented the office place. He had to pay the last two months rent for hit the streets. It was to be expected, he figured, the lawyer was being more than patient with John's apparent financial shortcomings. Unlike most lawyers, this one had a bit of a heart and understood the difficulties of the small businessman. The idea of giving up and having to close his doors scared the hell out of him. He had been making a living as a PI since the day he walked off the police force due to an "unwillingness to cooperate with the process of an investigation" or so it was written in the final report filed with the personnel department. More than a few four letter words between himself and the police chief had been rightly deleted from public record.