Virbank Noir

Welcome to my new maybe-series maybe-standalone about a hard-boiled private detective doing his part to clean up the streets of Virbank City.

I've been working on this on and off since October or so, trying an experimental writing style in the flavor of old-school private investigator radio dramas like "Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar", which was on the air from 1948 to 1962, and whose reruns can still be heard on some radio stations today. That said, expect some self-referential parody and characteristic over-dramatic-ness, and maybe even a little bit of silliness that doesn't often leave my fingertips.

For a good example of what the mood I'm trying to set, follow this link and listen to Episode 2 "The Parakoff Policy", and try to read the story in that kind of a tone, or follow this link to see how Steam is trying to take a similar flavor. Oh, and I welcome comments directly in this thread.

I've said too much. The story is below, in all its old-timey radio-drama glory. Read on, won't you?

\\\ \\\ \\\

October 30th. 11:55 PM. Virbank City. The sound from the Toxic Rock music club rumbles up from its subterranean lair and through the bricks that make this town. Steam rises from municipal heating, laying cover all around and leaving visibility low. I, leaning with my back to the music club's first above-ground floor, its bass moving through my spine and ribs, become aware of her presence. I hear her before I see her, emerging through the cloud, her heeled footwear snapping across the ground. Somehow she looks exactly as her voice sounded over the phone. A tall and slender woman, her legs going on and on for days as they move back across one another with each step, like a Liepard's rear paws. Her body rises up with a narrow but athletic form, leading up to her face, caramel in color, her hair a straight and short black, her full lips painted a bloody crimson, completely aware of her own undeniable appeal. That's all I see, though. I keep my hat brimmed down to protect my identity, but just as she can't see my eyes, I can't see hers.

"Who watches the Watchog?" She asks the codephrase through her breathy voice, slowly and cautiously, as if fear has a grip on her.

"I do." I answer. "What's on your mind?"

"It's my boss." She says, refusing to mention a name. That's okay, it's all the same to me. "I handle his contacts, you see, his letters and calls. And I've noticed some..." She lets it hang. Clearly she likes the man, or else she would throw forward an accusation without a second thought.

"Interesting patterns?" I suggest, speaking low to protect her reservations.

"Yes, exactly. Normally I don't get involved, it's not my job after all. But he's had a lot of messages between himself..." Again she hesitates. Only then do I realize how she's dressed. A simple but expensive-looking overcoat that covered her long arms down to the wrists, but whose bottom hardly covered below her bum, letting the lower hem of a red dress show at her mid-thigh, exposing an eye-catching stretch of her caramel skin above knee-high boots. Before I find out about her boss, I'll need to find out about her work. "... and Otto Stark".

I stand up from my lean against the wall. "Go home." I say to her. "Do not call me. Do not bother your boss further. Quit your job if you like, but keep away from me, and keep away from Stark."

"Please, you're the best detective, you're the best in the city, and you're the only one I know isn't in Stark's pocket!"

It's all true. The city is a gutter, and in a gutter this big, anyone could be a Rattata. I can only trust myself, and there might not be a big enough Raticate in this city to take Stark down on its own. "Go home." I tell her as I walk past, still not showing my face or seeing hers.

\\\

I took a detour out of sight and tailed her home, though the tail was mostly hers. I saw her address, and that alone would be enough for me to ask a friend of mine at City Hall what was her registered place of employment. Sometimes it all comes down to who you know.

Five after nine in the morning I show up at her place of business, the Virbank branch of Unova Metropolitan Insurance Company. A quaint little building looking like a small country cottage sandwiched between two larger, grayer buildings. I knock the wooden door twice before entering, and there she is at the front counter, the dame from last night. Headset clipped to one ear and fingers dancing across a computer keyboard, her short maroon dress traded for a conservative blue. While talking into the phone, she glances up and smiles politely, but not as if she recognizes me. A perfect stranger. While she's busy on the line, I take a moment to absorb the décor. The mostly open floorplan office is painted in a few shades of pale yellows and greens, seemingly they want their customers to feel as if they just wandered into a field of Sunflora. The receptionist's desk is generic but nicely decorated, she's got a mostly empty plastic cup occupied only by the remains of the whipped cream of some kind of café drink, as well as a nameplate identifying her as miss "Terri Moreno", and on an outbox paper tray lays a paperweight of a hardcover library book with a banknote marking a page near its back cover. On the wall I see what I'm looking for: a framed and brass-plaqued photograph of the main agent of the branch, a portly and middle-aged man with the looks of an untrustworthy politician, pardoning my redundancy.

"Hi, welcome to Unova Metro, are you a client with us?" She speaks with a convincingly fake smile that covers the fear that shrouded her last night.

"No, not yet at least. I have an appointment with Mister Bosco." I tell her, hoping she'll get the message I'm sending.

Her smile shrinks just a little bit and her eyes belie another emotion. I notice, at the deepest part of her V-cut top, that her breathing is just a bit faster than a moment ago. "Yes. Right away." She says before activating a push-to-talk phone on the desk. "Mich?" She asks, using her boss' first name. "I have a visitor for you."

No response through the phone, but a door to a windowed office near the back opens, and out steps Mister Bosco plus a few pounds not seen in his photo. He looks me up and down and tries to measure me by my face. "Come." He says in a gravelly voice, beckoning me to follow. He leads me back to his office. The walls there are a darker shade than the other yellows, and the blinds to the exterior window are already drawn shut. "Do I know you?" He asks, pacing to stand beside his Gurdurr bodyguard, complicating the situation at hand and striking my plan of throwing him against a wall to get my answers.

"Not yet. I have a connection to Stark." I say as I draw closed the blinds of the interior window between the private office and main area.

"Okay. So?" He asks as he scratches his cheek, covered in a short gray beard. "Last we spoke the situation was clear. Demo's on for the fifth."

"Not as clear as you hoped." I say, leading him the direction I want. "You left a mess at the last meeting, and Stark insists you take care of your own business."

"A mess?" He accuses. Either he's angry with me or anger is just a part of his psyche. "What kind of a mess are we talking about."

"The loose ends kind." Go on, Mich, take the bait.

"Everyone who knows is need-to-know." He insists confidently. "You can tell Otto he has nothing to worry about."

"You were tailed, Bosco." I raise my voice to match his. I can't play the passive defensive any more.

"Where? The demo site?" He asks. "Impossible. Nobody goes there after sundown."

Almost there, but if I get any closer, I'll be found out, and that Gurdurr doesn't seem to be the live-and-let-live type. "If you insist. Stark doesn't like loose ends. He's a secretive man. It would be best for you to abide by his nature." And then I leave the room, listening close to be sure he's not about to stop me. I made it all the way to the main door and bid a polite farewell to the lady who tipped me to the situation, wished her that she enjoy the rest of her book, and disappeared into the city before Bosco could process what happened.

\\\

6:21 PM. Virbank City Library.

I caught a few hours of sleep midday before walking to the sooty and antiquated building that served as the local repository of knowledge. I always thought it a shame how books can be treated sometimes. They get packed away on sheetmetal shelves in molding buildings while uneducated venture capitalists get their ivory towers and desks of endangered rainforest woods. I have about as much power to fix that as I do to stop Mount Chimney from errupting or escaping the wrath of my latest ex.

There's a café inside near the entrance, and it affords me a view of the exterior returns drop box and the service desk in the main area.

Twenty-two minutes into my wait as I nurse an overpriced bottle of foreign exotic water all the while, she arrives at the library. Miss Moreno finished her book that workday, and came to find the next. She chats with the librarian when she drops off her book, chats with a different librarian when checking out the next, chats with the baristo who makes her a whipped-cream-bombarded dessert-in-a-cup.

Lucky for me, the plan falls into place from that point. The café is half-filled but evenly distributed, so luck would have it the least-crowded place for her to take a space is across the table from me.

"Is this seat taken?" She asks sweetly.

"Not yet." I say. "You're welcome to join me. First time with that book, or are you returning to the scene of the crime?"

"First time. I just finished Book One today, and I was satisfied with how it ended. But of course there's a sequel, and I can't just leave it knowing there's more out there."

"I know what you mean. I was having a book sent here from another branch, supposed to make it sometime today, so I'm giving it until half-past." Believable enough.

"You're a patient man." She says, then opening the book to the first chapter with one hand and raising her drink with the other. "Have I seen you around here?" She takes a drink of whipped cream off the top of the beverage.

"Perhaps." I say, starting the risky part of my plan. "I think I saw you at the insurance office this morning."

She excitedly hums her agreement, leaving a spot of whipped cream on her upper lip, like snow on blood with those red lips. "Right! That was you!" She says with a smile, then narrows her eyes knowingly. "But I think I've seen you somewhere before that too."

"Perhaps." I say again, then carry on before she can ask another question. "I had a good talk with your boss, he mentioned something about a demo." Demonstration or demolition I don't know, but she doesn't need to know that I don't know. "What have you heard about that?"

"A date one week from now. He's coordinating with a developer at an office in the industrial complex in the southside. He wants it hush-hush for now." She glances to the side and turns her face to a sheepish frown. "That's all I know."

"And Stark?" I ask. "You mentioned Otto Stark before. Would he be that developer?"

She pulls her lower lip into her mouth. "I don't know for sure. I hate to throw accusations."

"It's not throwing accusations if you have evidence." I tell her, looking into her dark eyes. "When you go in to work tomorrow, do me a favor. Start thinking about where these letters and invoices are. You should expect some uniformed visitors in the morning who will want to see those papers." I stand from the table, take my water, and leave her with a slight smile.

"Thank you. And I like your hat." She says. "It's very stylish"

I haven't worn my hat since midnight last night.

\\\

Stakeouts.

I hate stakeouts.

On the surface, they sound fun. Hiding in secret to get the jump on the bad guys before they know what hits them.

The only person I have ever met who agrees with me is a talkative little boy I met at a soda shop one time, he was touring from Hoenn along with his family. He said that back home he would hide in the ash or trees or grass for unsuspecting trainers to wander by, sometimes for hours at a time, and not one of his colleagues would agree that the wait was, more often than not, not worth the investment.

He was right. I've been here, perched with my allies Ariados and Crobat on a concealed upper walkway of a storage silo for almost three hours after dark now. I can't walk around because moving will generate noise and attract attention, and that would give away my position. I can't take any calls or set up more jobs, because the phone chatter would give away my position. I can't even eat because that would attract Pidove, which would give away my position.

I hate stakeouts.

10:28, Mich Bosco shows up with his buddy, the Gurdurr from before. He stands in the chilly nighttime air, hands in his pockets, for less than half a minute before a portable trailer office opens its boarded-up door, the boards and nails now obviously just part of a disguise to make it all look abandoned and inconspicuous. I admit, I was fooled. Maybe I'll try that kind of a ruse in the future. A dapper but wrinkled man in a pricey suit and hat emerges into the moonlit darkness, followed by a slender woman who somehow carries an air of danger about her. An air of sultry danger.

Back to me. A man's efficacy is one part his own ability and one part his tools, and my favorite tool is a long-distance microphone. Point and listen, like being a fly on a wall.

"I wasn't followed." Bosco says as the man approaches him out in the open of the Virbank Complex. "I'm never followed."

"That's some way to start a conversation." The wrinkled man, presumably Stark, replies in a high-pitch and strained rasp. "You trying to cover something?"

"What?" Bosco bounces back. "Your errand boy told me I was tailed last time. That I should watch my back."

"I don't have an errand boy." Stark rasps. "I still haven't replaced the last. They never make it long in this business."

"That's your cue, Anansi." I whisper to the Ariados. He crawls down the wall of the storage silo to ground level and gets to work on his part of the plan.

"Young man with a baritone voice?" Bosco asks. "Gray trenchcoat, black gloves?"

"Flair for the dramatic?" Stark contributes. "Acts like he's the coolest thing this side of Castelia?"

I look to the Crobat. "Your turn, Iga." I whisper as she flies into the night, a stealthy symbol of covert justice riding the winds of change.

"So you know him." Bosco goes on. "He comes into my office looking like he wantes to shake me up--"

"That's the detective, you putz." Stark interrupts the story. "He's nothing but trouble for us."

A tense silence falls over the gang like Virbank fog. Stark turns to his attendant, and she runs to a space between more storage buildings, skulking along like a Sneasel. Bosco raps his knuckles on Gurdurr's shoulder, sending the Pokémon off to search the area too.

Bad news is they're on alert. Good news is they're alone. So they think.

Minutes pass silently, the wind howls through the gaps of the brick walls, the grassy quads, and the river channels of town.

"So about the demolition." Bosco says, breaking the silence as the wind quiets down for the sake of courtesy. "We're on schedule."

"Good." Stark answers as Iga shows up at my side again. I give her a nod and send her off again, the plan already agreed.

"My end of the deal is held up." Bosco resumes, completely unaware there's another ear in the conversation. "What about yours?"

"It's happening." Stark says. He cups his hands over his face and huffs out, the steam of his breath leaking out like smoke, shuffling like he wants to go inside and get into the warm. "Get out of here and don't call for 48. Not a suggestion."

A hard situation, I admit. Almost as hard as the boot that just got me in the ribs, Stark's lady got the jump on me and didn't feel like taking me fair, I tumble across the corrugated platform to its un-fenced edge, but not quite into open air.

"Scram!" Stark shouts in his rasp, starting a run toward the north exit of the the complex. I say run, but really it was more of a slouching, medium-speed slog as if through knee-deep Grimer. I'm in no position to chase Stark, what with his lady trying to kick me off the silo like I'm a lost football. The thing about kicking is that for everyone except experts of Blaziken-style fighting, you're left unbalanced when attacking with the leg and foot, with only one point of contact with the floor. She goes for another kick, I roll toward her, grab both ankles and tug so she falls, almost onto me at that. I take the moment of disorientation to get around her and to the ladder, slide down the side rails, and hit the ground running.

Bocso's speed better than Stark's, despite his age, but not as good as mine. He's going south, like he's got a plan to get away by water, but he doesn't make it. I close the distance, both of us gasping for breath in the cold autumn night, and I get a grip on his shoulder. He twists me off and tries to get a right hook on me, but that's exactly what I want. He stops, I stop, it's time to dance.

I put up my fists like a Breloom, staying light on my toes. He swings, I duck. He jabs, I step back. Four punches later, he's hit only air and I haven't even thrown one punch at him, a lesson I learned the time a wiseguy tried to turn the extortion case against him into an assault case against me. That's when I heard the thumping charge of that beefy Gurdurr running my way, I-beam in hand.

Good news, Iga got back in time to run interference for me and keep the Pokémon off my back. Bad news, Gurdurr was also running interference for Bosco. I take a jab like a hammer to the back of the head while I'm distracted and I see all the pretty colors. I stay on my feet and I'm not sure what happened next. Iga tried to help with a Confuse Ray, but I got caught in the mix of it too. By the time I get my head on straight again, Bosco's on the ground, laying on his side and with both hands zip-tied behind his back and his ankles set up with a fashionably matching accessory. I'm not suprised; after all, I am a crimefighter. I can do this in my sleep.

Red and blue lights to the north. The Hitmonlady's rib kick is hurting more with each breath, now that the adrenaline rush is fading. I get to the Complex exit and see Anansi's work well done: Stark is stuck like a fly in the spider's web, and all around him away from the threads stand half a dozen police officers, casually chatting about how they were just handed one of the city's most wanted.

"Got an accomplice back there, Jenny." I say to one of the officers, getting him to grimace at me. I don't need to be a detective to know that would happen, but the boys in blue need my services enough that I can say what I like. "Get him before he crawls to the river." Two of the Jennies jog off in the direction I left Stark. "Also this fellow has a bodyguard somewhere around here. A feisty one, so don't take her lightly." Two more leave. "Here's the audio of their discussion I heard. Not enough for conviction, but it should go the distance toward digging out a confession. My guess: insurance scheme to make some money off demolition and make land development pay for itself." I hand off the mic's memory card to a Jenny and start away from them, north to the city. "You know how to reach me."

\\\

11:48 PM, I'm sitting on the roof of my apartment's building, feet dangling over the edge, lemon Soda Pop in one hand. Two active criminals are on their way to being locked up, but nothing seems any different. The same steam rising from below the streets, the same Rattata causing small mayhem, the same dame strolling down the sidewalk to the same alley as last night, with her same legs that go on for days. I see Miss Moreno all the way, and she's alone in there, though she wishes she wasn't. I might be curing this city of its diseases, but I'm no doctor, and I don't schedule follow-up appointments. She stands at my part of the wall until the stroke of midnight, then five minutes more before sauntering out and back along the street.

It's true. I'm no doctor. But maybe I could offer a house call.

\\\

"The gangster was right." The man scoffed, turning the volume on the console down a few notches. "This guy does think he's the hottest thing ever to come out ot Castelia City."

"Aww, don't say that." She replied. "I like him."

"You like him?" He asked. "Are we still talking about the same egotistical, womanizing, sesquipedaliophiliac here?"

"He's confident, charming, and has a way with words." She answered. "Meaning, among other things, he's nothing like you."

"Nothing like what? I am deservingly confident, I can charm pink cheeks onto any woman, and I do too have a way with words! Did you not just hear me use sesquipedaliophiliac in a sentence?"

"Big words must make you feel like an all-around big man too, huh?" She grinned at him. "So much for the confidence."

He was left momentarily speechless, unable to deflect the blow.

"Finally some peace and quiet." She went on with a sing-songy sway, scrolling through the list of active feeds. "On to the next."

\\\

ΖΣ

 

@[member='EverchangingArcadia'], noted and correcting, thanks for pointing those out. #1 is a genuine error that came up because I re-read it too much and subconciously corrected it in my own head in later re-reads. #2, however, was intentional. I-beam is another name for those steel girders used in construction projects, as seen being held by Gurdurrs. They get their name by their shape when looking down its length, they have that capital I shape (on some fonts, at least)

I'm brainstorming a next "episode", and I'm actually going to try to make it a real mystery in a few installations, with a few days or a week's time to ponder and develop. Each part will be smaller than this, and the final product not much bigger, but I'm going to try to cultivate a sense of the reader trying to figure out along with the detective (who is being given a name) what's not being told outright. There admittedly wasn't much detective work in this one. A few interviews and a stakeout, but that's getting an upgrade in the next.