Once again, Decoder Ring Theater presents another page from the casebook of that Master of Mystery,

that's Sultan of Sleothing, Martin Bracknell's immortal detective, Black Jack Justice,

starring Christopher Mott as Jack and Andrea Lyons as Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

The name's Justice. Jack, Justice.

There are days when the city conspires to make it difficult for a fella to present a properly hard-boiled aspect.

Mornings when the sun is bright and the air is crisp but not yet cool,

and everything seems fresh and new even to those who ought to know better.

Days when the million stories in the naked city all seem to be about carefree businessmen who dawdled on the way to work, or pleasant old ladies who stopped to feed the ducks.

Normally, that kind of morning is poison to a shamis. Try as you might, you can't help but remember that if everybody's

happy, there's no particular need for you to get out of bed. There are exceptions, though,

even for yours truly, and there was something about the day in question that made the schoolboy

in my soul's fancy turn to thoughts of truancy.

I was only a few blocks from the walk-up that housed the stylish offices of Jack Justice Investigations,

where the old neighborhood borders the park, when I finally had to question exactly what the hurry was.

If the office didn't open at the stroke of nine, would it really matter?

Besides, there was always my partner, Trixie, the Punch Clock Dixon.

She'd have been there for an hour already, just for whatever giddy thrill she got looking down her nose at me when I sauntered in.

Who was I to deny the kid her little pleasures?

A little fresh air was all I was after.

I made a quick turn to the left to enter the

park when I ran headlong into someone making a hard right with the same apparent intention.

Watch it, Bub. Watch it yourself, sister. I... Trixie.

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