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Chapter 38 - O'Reilly

Ch.38 - Detective Thomas O'Reilly

'Well hello there, Mr. Money-Bags. And to what do I owe this honor?' 

Detective Thomas O'Reilly sat behind the cluttered desk concentrating on a particularly frustrating game of poker when his new client walked in. The man had called that morning insisting on an afternoon appointment and his mouse of a secretary penciled him in, even though he'd given her strict instructions to keep the next several hours free. He'd lost his ass the week before in an online tournament and now he needed to find a way to recover his losses. It was either that or forfeit his car payment, which wasn't an option.

With an irritated huff, O'Reilly closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, studying the man as he entered the room. He wore a gray pinstripe suit with a crisp white dress shirt underneath and a dark silk tie. His shoes were polished to the nines and his hair impeccably groomed, not one shiny silver strand out of place. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin held high, the corner of his lips turned up in a smirk as he took in his surroundings.

The man reeked of old money and Irish whiskey, a dangerous combination, and he caught wind of it immediately from across the overcrowded desk.

'A liquid lunch. Can't say I haven't been there before.' In fact, O'Reilly had downed a fifth of vodka for dinner just the night before, the dull pounding in his head a constant reminder of that.

His chair creaked as he shifted his substantial weight and he made an unsuccessful attempt to conceal a fart. "What can I do for today, Mr. . ."

"Austin," the man said. "Conrad Austin."

O'Reilly nodded his head. ". . .Mr. Austin?"

"I assume I can sit?" he asked, nodding at the chair in front of his desk. It was covered in a deep burgundy faux leather with a long tear in the center of the seat, the foam contents spilling out between the jagged laceration.

"Be my guest."

O'Reilly had been negotiating with the scum of society for the better part of thirty years, first as a detective then a private investigator. Many of the low-life's he dealt with were gutter rats, inhabiters of the slums, executing unthinkable acts to catch their next fix. Others were hard-working citizens whose gut instinct told them their spouse weren't respecting their wedding vows. He'd learned over time to go with the gut. Somehow the gut always knew. If something felt wrong, it typically was. And right now his gut told him this guy was up to no good, despite his expensive suit and nauseatingly pungent cologne.

'So Mr. Big-Spender likes to show off, he thought as he eyed the man's sapphire and diamond studded tie pin. You know what they say about men who flaunt their money: they have teeny-tiny appendages they're trying to compensate for. And this chump's dick must be especially small. Look at those matching cuff links!'

The silver-haired man cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. "I need information."

'Well, no shit, Mr. La-Di-Da! Even my secretary could have told me that!'

"Of course you do, Mr. Austin. What exactly can I help you with?"

"You had a client a few years ago, a young man looking for his wife."

O'Reilly arched his eyebrows. "That fits the description of many of my clients. Can you be any more specific?"

"I can be as specific as you like." Conrad Austin leaned forward and narrowed his eyes in a menacing glare. "This young man's name was Steven Austin. He hired you to find his wife when she disappeared after a house fire. Ring any bells?"