Chapter 1

Picture this—

Wilde City, 1924, a crane on the top of every skyscraper, a party in every club, a romance on every dance floor, a shooting every night, a broken heart on every street corner and a dirty secret behind every window with the curtains drawn. It's a city crammed with tough guys, dangerous women, loud jazz, and illegal booze; the kinda place where everyone carries a hipflask in their pocket and a spare pistol in their sock, no matter whether they're dealing opium in a dark alley in Little Chinatown or dancing up a storm at the Rainbow Palace atop Wilde City Tower. You want a good time, you come to Wilde City; you wanna last a long time, you go someplace else. Because here in Wilde City there's only three types of people: the lovers, the famous… and the dead.

Me, I ain't famous, and last time I checked, I wasn't dead either. And as for love, well I ain't felt that in a long, long time. Sure, I've blown more than just money on the rent boys at the Velvet Viper; Satan knows there's more than a few holes to slither down in that sinful snake pit. But I'd never really had anyone that I'd consider… cherished. Well at least not since I was a boy. But that's a story for later.

So if I ain't a lover, and I ain't famous or dead, I guess that sorta makes me a nobody. Which is kinda what you need to be in my line of work. The name's Buck Baxter, Private Detective. I stay low and keep my eyes open. I watch every shadow. I listen for every footstep, every whisper. I don't make friends, I don't make enemies, and I sure as hell don't fall in love. I just get the job done fast, collect my payment, and move on to the next case.

At least, that's how the game used to go.

It all changed the night he blew into town, announcing himself in a blaze of fireworks and a shebang so big it seemed the whole of Wilde City descended upon his glittering nightclub to hail the new prince of parties. His name was Holden Hart, and maybe I never would have met him if I didn't get the telephone call from one Miss Winnipeg Whitmore.

"Mr. Baxter? Are you Mr. Buck Baxter?"

"Speaking." The clock on the wall of the Buck Baxter Detective Agency told me it was just before nine in the evening. I was at my desk in my rundown old office that doubled as my apartment, sitting there stark naked but for my trusty black trilby. The night was so damn hot and sticky you could pour it in a barrel and slap a molasses label on it. I couldn't stack enough ice in my glass of gin. The cannabis I'd smoked earlier was starting to sweat from my pores. If I held my face any closer to the electric fan on my desk, it might have shaved the stubble off my cheek.

"My name's Miss Winnipeg Whitmore. I have a case for you, but I must be assured of absolute discretion. It's a somewhat delicate matter that needs investigating, and I'm a very private person."

"It's your lucky day, Miss Whitmore. I'm a very private detective."

"Do you accept cash?"

I clinked the ice in my gin. "Greenbacks, booze, pot, pistols… Lady, if I can trade it or spend it, I accept it."

She seemed a little flustered by that. "Oh. Well then. Cash it is."

Bright and early the next morning, there came a curt knock at the door. So bright and early in fact, I was still asleep on the sofa. I rolled off in a tangled sheet and hit the floor, my head pounding, and my cock already wide awake. I grabbed my trousers and slid them on, then pulled on a worn, sweat-stained undershirt and snapped my suspenders over my shoulders. I was still tucking myself in, trying to push my erection down, when the knock came once again.

"Be right there," I called, before splashing the melted ice in my glass over my face. There was still a trace of gin left, and it burned my eyes. "Ah, shit," I whispered to myself, wiping my red eyes dry with the back of my forearm and reaching for the door.

Evidently, my efforts to look remotely presentable failed.

The woman at the door looked somewhat shocked at my appearance. She herself came across as extremely prim and proper, in a dour kinda way. A real Mrs. Grundy if you catch my drift. On closer inspection, she was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but at first glance she had looked much older, what with the tight curls in her hair, the white-gloved hands clutching her white handbag, the pale blue blouse buttoned up to her neck, and a skirt that reached all the way to her ankles. I felt all hot and itchy just looking at her.

"Miss Whitmore, I'm guessing."

She looked past me to the office apartment behind me. I could see her eyes scanning the room, and I knew exactly what she was seeing: the sheet on the floor by the sofa; the worn curtains and frayed rug on the bare boards; the empty gin bottle and glass on the desk; the pipe sitting in a silver dragon ashtray filled with the ash of last night's cannabis hit; the bath tub and john in the far corner with the rusty plumbing running up the walls.

She looked even more shocked when she got to that.

I shrugged, and by way of explanation said, "There used to be a wall there, but I live alone and it was kinda in the way, so why bother with the formalities?" I suddenly thought aloud, "Oh, do you need to use the restroom?"

"Gracious, no!" she gasped with no hesitation whatsoever. "Perhaps this was a mistake."

She turned and started to leave when I said, "Suit yourself, Miss Whitmore. There's plenty more gumshoes in Wilde City. Like Bones Mahoney, who spills all his leads to the editor of the Wilde City Chronicle. Or Freddy Finkster, who solves his cases with the help of the local authorities. Or Snitch Taylor, who… well, the name says it all, really. So go ahead. Take your pick. Although when it comes to a ‘delicate' case such as yours, discretion and privacy may not be their strong suits."

Miss Whitmore stopped in her tracks, slowly turned, and took a deep, silent breath.

"Why don't you step into my office?" I asked.

"I believe my husband is having an affair, and I want to know for certain."

Miss Whitmore sat at my desk in the chair opposite me. She didn't look up, kept her eyes fixed on the many ring stains left on the wooden desktop from too many gins over the years. She seemed determined not to make eye contact with me. It was too early to tell if she was simply nervous, humiliated, or keeping secrets of her own. Perhaps it was all three.

"Are you sure you wanna know? You should be prepared for the worst-case scenario."

"Of course I want to know. Why wouldn't I?"

"Something tells me you already do."

"What do you mean?"

"You refer to yourself as Miss, not Mrs. Have you already left him?"

She hesitated, stumbled over her words for a moment. "It's not… I didn't want…" She finally said with more certainty, "Coming here was very difficult, Mr. Baxter. I've taken every precaution I could. You'll notice I even removed my wedding ring."

She showed me her finger and the mark in her skin where a ring had obviously been worn for some time. I raised one eyebrow, a little suspiciously. She saw and pulled her finger away a little indignantly.

"As I said before, I'm trying to be as discreet as possible, Mr. Baxter. I was careful not to be followed here. I don't want anyone to know I'm here. Especially not Mr. Whitmore."

"So that is your real name?"

She nodded.

I picked up a notepad and pen, then started flipping through it. New page, new case. "First name?"

"Winnipeg. Peggy for short."

"I already have that. I mean your husband's first name."

"Stuart. But everyone calls him Stu."

"And what makes you think he's cheating on you?" I watched her face when I asked this question. The tiniest twitch speaks louder than any words. Miss Whitmore didn't so much as flinch.

"He's been coming home late from work. Sometimes he goes out at odd hours and doesn't come home till almost dawn. He doesn't even try to hide it. I hate to think of the gossip in the neighborhood."

"What does he do for a crust?"

"He's a delivery driver."

"Perhaps he's making some late night deliveries."

Miss Whitmore shook her head. "What kind of delivery man slicks his hair and wears his best cologne to work, then comes home with a secretive smile on his face and buttons missing from his shirt?"

"I'll need your home address. And a picture of your husband if you have one."

"It's 7732 East Fifteenth Street. And yes, I thought you might ask for a picture. I have one here." She rummaged through her handbag and handed over a photograph of a young man standing outside a picture theater, smiling. Another young man stood beside him. According to the billboard, The Hunchback of Notre Dame starring Lon Chaney was playing.

"Which of these gentlemen is your husband?"

"The one on the left, wearing the scarf and hat."

"Forgive me for mentioning it, but he looks a lot younger than you."

"The photograph is several years old. Although the years have definitely been kind to him. He looks very much the same these days."

"Who's the other man in the picture?"

Miss Whitmore shrugged. "I have no idea. An old school friend perhaps. Or someone he met in a bar. Stu has a very magnetic personality. Unfortunately that means he tends to attract a lot of pins."

I couldn't help but wonder if Mrs. Stu Whitmore wasn't something of a pin herself.

At that moment, she glanced up at me. "Mr. Baxter, if my husband is having an affair, I need to know as quickly as possible. I can't go on living with this—or him—if he's being unfaithful. I'm a devout Catholic, Mr. Baxter…"

The only one left in Wilde City, I imagined.

"I refuse to let a sinner traipse his filthy footprints across my soul."

"Don't worry, Miss Whitmore. I can sweep the floorboards of your soul clean for you. For fifty bucks. Plus expenses."

Miss Whitmore stood from the chair and pulled a small bundle of cash from her handbag. "This should cover your costs in the short term. You'll receive full payment when I receive proof of my husband's affair."

I smiled at one of my favorite sounds in the world: the sound of a wad of cash landing on my desk. It was right up there with the sound of ice rattling in a glass when a drink's about to be poured, or a rent boy crying out in ecstasy just as you're about to blow a load inside him.

The thought of a few of my favorite working boys flashed through my head and I felt myself growing hard again. Promptly, I showed Miss Whitmore the door before she noticed.

"Please don't visit me at the house in case my husband answers the door," she instructed sternly. "I'll be back at the end of the week to see you. I'd like answers."

"You'll have them, whether you like them or not."

She turned and abruptly left.

I shut the door behind her and couldn't help but think there was something fishy going on. I had no idea what Miss Whitmore was hiding, but one thing was for sure: this didn't feel like no cut-and-dry adultery case to me. I scratched my head and could smell the sweat of my armpit. Probably not an odor Miss Whitmore approved of, but for me it was the kinda scent that would give me an instant hard-on inside the Velvet Viper, what with all the wall-to-wall naked men fucking and sucking each other.

I reached down now and squeezed the cock growing even larger inside my trousers. I decided to strip off, run a bath, and rub one out. Hangovers always made me horny, and my dick appreciated the attention. It didn't take long to shoot a wad of hot cum up my chest, which matted the hair, then slowly oozed down my stomach and slid in white ribbons through the bath water. I stayed there a while, soaking myself in the water and cum as I pondered where to begin my investigation.

A man in the midst of an affair is always out to impress.

I decided to start at the newest, most popular place in town.

Holden Hart's nightclub.