Painting Table Noir. . .

So there I sat. Minding my own business while the rest of the world slept. That old, faded neon sign outside my window, buzzing loudly, blinked Eat at Joe's, to nothing and no one. No one but me. . .  Gloss E. Varnish.

As usual, I painted in a beat up fedora and wrinkled trenchcoat with a glowing Lucky stuck to my lower lip, a nickel-plated heater in the top drawer, and a half-empty bottle of cheap scotch on the desk. I'd made some headway on another batch of Holger Eriksson cavalry, a tough case to crack, and stopped for a swig or two of rot-gut and another smoke. I inhaled deeply, enjoyed the burn, and contemplated a new number three sable round with a good point that I'd bought a few days before.  It was a good night.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across my threshold. She was a dark city dame on the lam, trying to escape from a troubled past. And some guy called F.O. Wore, the leader of a new gang of toughs in the city, who were trying to muscle in on the trade.  I gave her a light and sat back to listen.

Her story came out in bits and pieces. With all her garbled talk of bounce sticks and cannister cones, enamels versus oils, written orders and imagi-nations -- Or was it her cool, appraising stare? -- she turned my life upside down faster than you could say Donald Featherstone.

I'd decided to take her case before she finished.  And her money of course.  No questions.  She could pay me later.  She thanked me and took another drag, her final words drifting into the stillness of my office through the clouds of blue cigarette smoke.  Already, I felt like a drowning man, going down for the last time.