3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany by Jim Stevens

drawstrings on a set of curtains on the left. Once open, the Zanadu Club lies beneath us like an IMAX movie being played with no sound and lousy plot. “Sit,” he says motioning me towards a couch. “Drink?”
    “No, thank you.”
    He pours himself a glass of ice water from a Waterford pitcher on the coffee table, and sits across from me. “Miss being on the force?” he asks.
    “Some days,” I tell him. “Mostly, I miss my paychecks.”
    Mr. DeWitt folds his hands above his lap. He wears diamonds on two fingers and in one ear lobe. “I have a problem, Mr. Sherlock.”
    I immediately think, “Just one?” I got a whole slew of them, my kids, my ex-wife, the rent, the electric bill, gas prices, car, etc., etc., etc.
    “Are you available for hire?” he asks.
    Is a rabbi Jewish? Is the Pope Catholic? Is Buddha a Buddhist?
    “I better ask what the problem is,” I tell him.
    “Someone is trying to destroy my business.”
    I look out on the dance floor packed to the gills with well-dressed partiers. “Whoever it is, Mr. DeWitt, it doesn’t look like they’re doing a very good job.”
    “Trust me. Poisonous seeds have been planted and they are ready to take root.”
    “A few spiked drinks aren’t going to kill your vibe. They might even help it.”
    “Success breeds envy. Envy breeds ideas. Ideas breed ill-conceived actions.”
    I lean forward a bit. “What exactly do you think they’re going to do,” I ask, “that could put a dent into what you’ve got going here?”
    “Kill me.”
    I pause to contemplate his answer. “That certainly wouldn’t help your bottom line.”
    “No, I wouldn’t say so.”
    He sits straight as an honest judge, staring right into me, with absolutely no emotion of his face.
    “Did someone try to slip a Mickey into your drink?” I ask attempting to link two crimes into one investigation.
    “I don’t drink.”
    “Well, what exactly did he, or she, or they, try to do?”
    “Nothing yet.”
    D’Wayne DeWitt is not being very helpful to the cause of his new employee. “Then why do you suspect someone is attempting to kill you?”
    “I know,” he says. “And that’s all you need to know.”
    D’Wayne DeWitt might be better off spending an hour with Miss Freeda, Palm Reader, Tarot Master, and Seer to the Stars. “From what I have seen, you already employ enough muscle to keep the Taliban at bay.”
    Mr. DeWitt shifts in his chair ever so slightly. “All I want you to do is find out what is going on. You don’t have to stop them, confront them, or come up with a plan to solve the problem. All I want to know is who and what.”
    “And then what?” I ask.
    “I’ll be happy and you’ll be paid.”
    Something is wrong with this picture; actually there are many things wrong with this picture.
    “Four hundred dollars an hour, plus expenses,” he says.
    But that isn’t one of them.
    He pulls a gold money clip out of his pocket, counts out a number of hundreds, and offers them to me. “On account,” he says.
    Once I lay my hands on the money, I know my fate is sealed. I contemplate it for less than a nanosecond and grab the cash. Boy, do I need this cash. “I’ll start tomorrow.”
    Mr. DeWitt rises from his chair. “You’ll start tonight.”
    Well, it’s clear who will be the head ramrod on this wagon train. “What do you want me to do?”
    “I don’t know,” he says. “You’re the detective.”
    “I’ll get right on it.” I rise. With the wad of money in my pocket, pressing against my leg, I feel as if I have risen from years in a financial coma. The dawn has broken. Spring has sprung. Unplug me from life support. I’m alive. I’m alive.
    I am almost to the door when I turn around and ask, “By the way, do you have a guy working for you, kinda short, wears aviator glasses, and has a little ponytail running down the back of his neck?”
    “No.”
    I believe I just found my starting place.
    “I’ll be in touch.”
    I make my way down the flight of