Privateeyeism

On my third cigar of the morning, the job came in. This city moved in strange ways.

But I knew how to swim these currents as I bid goodbye to my friends Jack and Daniels.

A missing cat. I needed to find Felix fast before he disappeared into the hidden room at the back of the Petco forever.

I looked down at the picture ripped from the streetlight. Orange stripey boy. The gleam of hope still flickering in his eyes.

God willing, I might reach him before it died permanently.

Turning down an alley, I heard trashcans rattle. Ahead, pronounced cheekbones and the left set of whiskers shorter than the right.

The color seemed a bit off, but it had been five minutes since my last cigarette.

Felix seemed to recognize his savior, settling into my arms and purring away beneath oil-stained fur.

Only then did I realize I had violated my code: I had let the job become personal. I didn’t care how many greenbacks I was turning my back on. This cat wasn’t going back to those irresponsible pricks.

Now Felix is the mascot of John Cliché Private Investigations. His owners claim they found him. Only he and I know that other feline is an impostor, and neither of us is clamoring to set the record straight.

“Dumb bastards,” I remark as I scratch Felix’s chin. The oil still hasn’t come out. Ah well.

Just one more time privateeyeism held the chaos simmering beneath the concrete at bay.