The Case of the Legal Eagles Part 2.

The name's Dixon. Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

The important thing was that we had a client.

On a practical level, clients meant money, and money meant rent, and groceries, and trifles like that. On an existential

level, clients and their problems provided a mission, a reason for being without which a detective

was merely a shadow passing through this world without import. I liked all of these words.

I also liked the prospect of looking at something other than Jack, and talking to people who were

not Jack, and going outside into environments where not everything smelled like coffee grounds, defeat,

and Jack. So I was in favor of our employee by Eugene Simmons late of Columbus, Indiana. I was in

favor of it, and I said so. I also didn't like it very much at all, and I said that too.

You don't have to sell me, Jack said, unplugging the hot plate and resting the coffee pot in the sink.

Guy's story has more holes in it than his hat.

You earn something of a glass house yourself in that regard.

I unwound my umbrella from the stand beside the radiator and made sure it was still in working order.

Shall we enumerate the baloney?

Alleged baloney, Jack said with the raise of his finger, as if he were making a sage legal point.

Alleged. Yes, I agreed. Well, for starters, he took a bus, Jack snorted.

That's your problem with this, I snapped, placing my still rain-soaked hat upon my head with as much grace as I could muster.

Columbus, Indiana is a hop and a skip south of Indianapolis, Jack said, and whatever else he did, he'd have to transfer there.

So, I asked. So he took a bus from the railway city. Jack was perfectly serious. Oh, for

God's sakes, Jack, I protested. He never met a slogan he didn't like. What? He pulled on his

overcoat, spraying drops all over both desks in the process.

...