It was a weak trail, but a trail nonetheless. It was the best lead I'd had since this investigation began. Detecting is not an easy job. There are lots of cigarettes and small revolvers involved. And trenchcoats. No one ever considers the trenchcoats.

This particular case was full of trenchcoats. The kind with deep thigh pockets; perfect hiding places for memories. You ever reach into one of those pockets? Like trying to get to the bottom of a crime that never happened. An easy place for a memory to get good and lost, anyways. Which is just what happened. And not just one lost memory, either. That's kid stuff. One memory here and there gets misplaced, nobody bats an eye. What I was dealing with was a crime wave. Memories dropping like flies, some lost before they even got a chance to be remembered. Poor bastards.

But this was a real lead. If I played my cards right, the case would crack. And I was good at cards. Cards, booze, and dames. I think I'm good at all three. I'm supposed to be. The glass on the door reads "Private eye,"and most days I'm inclined to believe it.

Still, the lead was weak. It was just a rumour, really. Trixie, who hangs out by the pier, said she heard some things. Trixie hears a lot of things. Except her conscience. She drowns that out with the sound of fifties sliding out of businessmen's wallets. Can't say I blame her. Those fifties can get pretty noisy. I should know, I handed her one for the tip she gave me. She may be a good talker, that Trixie, but she's coin operated.

So what do I get for my generosity? "The memories been comin' around lately," says Trixie, all red lipstick and blue mascara. "Some of the other girls, they don't like it. Think it cuts in on our business. Me, I know the score. Johns lookin' for tail, they ain't lookin' for memories. Most of the time, in fact, that exactly what they ain't lookin' for. Memories is what got 'em here in the first place. They got plenty enough 'a that." Trixie makes sense. Well, not really, between her five o'clock shadow and her knockout cans, but what she's saying rings true. Still, those memories sure aren't comin' around for the scenery. So what kind of tricks were they turnin'?

I needed answers. Too many question marks for my tastes. I'm a period kinda guy, though once in a while I'll switch it up with a good exclamation point. It depends on whether I have my silencer with me or not.

I decided to take it with me to the pier, just in case. The regular girls were there, standing like dime-store go-go dancers under the off-beat orange strobelight made by the short-circuiting streetlamps. I spotted Trixie, who tipped her head to one side when she saw me, directing my attention to a lamp on the other side of the pier. Squinting, I could make out some dark shapes clustered around the post. I could tell what they were by the way they fidgeted. Memories never stand still.

This was it. I could feel the case closing, even as I crossed the distance between me and the memories. Suddenly, a fedora and a trenchcoat blocked my path. There was something filling them out, but I didn't get a chance to see what before the lights went out.

• • • 
      
    
    
  
  

When I woke up, I was in my office. My head felt like a bar just after last call; bored, confused, and out of booze. My friend Jack could fix at least one of those problems, so I went over to the liquor cabinet to pick him up. I had a feeling that I was forgetting something, but I figured it would come to me if it was important. Chasing down a lost memory was like taking a job from a nice-lookin' dame: you always tended to lose more than you found.