Fear factor: 0. I laugh in the face of danger.
Cool factor: 10. If private eyes weren't cool, there wouldn't be so many TV shows about them.
Coulda been worse: I could've spent eight hours in a car. Midnight till dawn. In January. In a blizzard. With a full bladder. Or worse.
It was dark. Really dark. The kind of dark you only see when it's not light. Somewhere off in the black-velvet night, a shot rang out and a woman screamed.
Either that or a car backfired and a cat yowled. I get 'em confused.
My name is Yarborough. Chuck Yarborough. I'm a gumshoe. A shamus. A sherlock. A private eye. Magnum with a beard and not just that woolly bear on his upper lip. Sam Spade without the Maltese Falcon.
For today's story, I am a private investigator for Demopoulos & Associates, the firm run by Pete D. and his wife, Bonnie.
Here's how it went down: The other day, I'm sitting in my office, minding my own beeswax, checking out the racing form for Thistledown and reminiscing about the days when newsroom desk drawers came with Scotch bottles, typewriters clattered a staccato symphony and stale smoke hung in the air like yesterday's sauerkraut. And then, this dame walks in like she runs the place.
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