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It were a sweltering, stormy night. The air was heavy with moisture, filled with the scent of rum, burning tar, parrot droppin's and death.
I sat in my office, a cosy little wooden box in a cosy little port. I planned to be buried in it once my time was up, and from the looks of the night that time was not far off. I'm Blackjack McFarlane, Pirate Detective. A grizzled old soak in a tough job, made even tougher by the fact that I'm at least 200 years ahead of my time. Ar.
My skill was in findin' people. If you thought your son had been shanghaied, or his boat captured by a band of bloodthirsty swabs, It'd be my task to prove to you he was in fact shacked up in some half-collapsed cat-house, gettin' his mainframe spliced. In recent times work had been thin on the ground. I wasn't able even to afford enough rum to keep myself sane. Now my only clients were the voices. And they paid nothin'.
And then she walked in. She was a fine beauty, eyes like whirlpools, a perfect figure, a beautiful leg and an intricately carved peg-leg, in polished rosewood.
"How can I be helpin' ye?" |
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