"What do I do now?" Tannehill nonchalantly pulled the string of cheddar connecting his mouth and cheeseburger from its bovine substrate and chewed thoughtfully on his rhetorical statement. Spinoza, unaware that the question was rhetorical, shrugged. They'd been meeting for lunch frequently in the weeks since Tannehill's disciplinary hearing and dismissal. Though he claimed outwardly it was solely due to Tannehill's lack of an income, Spinoza could admit to himself that it was a slipshod attempt at atonement.
"I suppose I could return to engineering. We're in a state that's seeing enormous growth potential and the opportunities should be plentiful."
"That seems regressive, since you've been out of practice for some time." Spinoza was still unaware that he was an audience to the conversation rather than a participant.
Tannehill's voice grew more distant in thought, "but I am a bit rusty." Belatedly, he realized he was being summoned from his haze by someone else. "Sorry," he picked up a thick fry and munched on it purposefully, "what did you say?"
"I said that returning to engineering likely isn't your best alternative."
Tannehill continued to crunch down on his fry, caught halfway between his own thoughts and Spinoza's observation. "Yeah, you're probably right." He sighed less out of resignation or regret and more out of simple exasperation for his dearth of ideas. To wit, he had thought of exactly one idea for a career change since his expulsion from the police force - returning to his engineering degree.
"You could be a private investigator. It wouldn't require a drastic change in your career path."
Tannehill starting chewing again in contemplation. "I'm not certain that would work out well. My name's been plastered all over the paper -" Spinoza colored at this statement even though Tannehill was talking distractedly rather than taking aim, " - and I don't think people would appreciate the notoriety."
Spinoza scoffed and jerked back in mild disbelief. "This is Capital City. Voters don't trust politicians who are too clean. They assume the candidates are either hiding something so insidious it can't come to light or they'll be eaten alive once they're in office. I don't think that kind of citizenry is going to mind your type of publicity. Besides, as a PI, you're expected to be a bit scummy."
With Spinoza's rousing encouragement ringing in his ears the following days, Tannehill decided to set up shop. His application for a private investigator's license encompassed nothing more than an affirmative response to a follow-up question about his previous employment:
"So, says here you used to be a former cop."
"Yup, I was previously a detective. Do you need to check any references?"
"No, we just need the filing fee of $10."
Tannehill fished a crumpled bill out of his pocket, smoothed it, and laid it on the counter, smiling for effect. He wondered if, had he put down "former chief of police" or "former president of the United States," the interlocution would have been more rigorous. He decided it wouldn't have.
His next order of business was to find office space. He decided to stay near his old precinct, as he felt he knew the neighborhood better and would be able to operate with some degree of comfort in getting his business off the ground. The realtor he talked to offered him a twenty-foot by twenty-foot office in a shared office corridor that had been damaged by water. The realtor also swore that the water damage was due to a previously busted water main and not the notoriously fickle ocean located a convenient two blocks away. Traces of salinity on the water damaged walls were slight and the office air smelled more of mildew than seafood, so Tannehill took the realtor at his word and put down a security deposit.
The artist who appeared to complete the signage on the office's frosted window had lenses that hinted at severe myopia. His conversation with Tannehill about the contents of the signage was mumbled and mostly conducted in a foreign language.
"Tannehill - two 'n's two 'l's," Tannehill spoke slowly, suspicious of his commissioned artist's comprehension skills. Upon completion, the sign read "CH Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigator." Tannehill considered it a win, since the number of letters within his name remained consistent with his own preferred spelling.
Office space rented and PI license in hand, his final order of business was to drum up clients. Spinoza's guilt played a big part here as well - his position as the lead crime reporter at The Daily Courier allowed him to offer Tannehill two weeks' worth of ad space in the classified section of the paper. And, Spinoza wasn't entirely immune to the politics of Capital City either. He was able to weave a few deft references to the up-and-coming PI businesses in the city - specifically near the city's South Docks neighborhood - for matters that the police were simply too overwhelmed or indifferent to handle.
It took fewer than 24 hours for calls to begin flooding Tannehill's desk. Many of the calls involved spouses' or lovers' inquests about potential infidelity. Others about neighbors' suspected misdeeds. A few requested help for misplaced or presumably stolen items. Some hinted heavily about help with protection rackets - both in forming them and busting them up. Spinoza had been correct about the citizenry's tolerance for notoriety. Many of Tannehill's prospective clients shamelessly referenced his perceived vigilantism and the need for more people who were "willing to clean up the streets." What his willingness to clean up the streets had to do with a glut of unfaithful paramours, Tannehill hadn't a clue, but he was fine playing the role in order to score a paycheck.
After Tannehill's first full week of re-employment, Spinoza visited the office with a house warming offering.
"Thanks, but it wasn't necessary," he grasped the outstretched bottle of muddied brown liquid thrust in his direction.
"It's not really a gift, it's simply me trying to diminish my inventory. Alcohol is still prohibited after all."
"So, it is," Tannehill muttered, turning the bottle over in his hands. He stopped and squinted at the label. "Was this produced prior to Prohibition?"
"Indeed it was."
"I didn't even know they made bourbon in Nebraska," he exclaimed, placing the bottle in his bottom drawer next to his former service revolver. He reached for his coat, then the light. "I'm hungry. The usual?"
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1058 words. I'm hoping to strike a nice coup de grâce and finish the first draft during Nation Novel Writing Month, since it was an exercise for NaNoWriMo that kicked off this whole venture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. The running total is 44395.]
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