The Master Class has started making submissions every two weeks for the summer. This round, the phrase is:
And it could be placed at the very beginning or ending of the piece.
Feel free to let me know what you think, and definitely follow the link (in the picture) and check out the other submissions!
“Hey! You! Mister! Mister? Hey, Mister, sir, hey! Mister, wait!”
Daniel ignored the uncouth youngster right up until the brat had the audacity to reach a grimy hand towards the sleeve of his charcoal trench coat. He barely caught the movement out of the corner of his eye in time to whirl and confront the desecrator of outerwear. He hardly even appreciated the subtle swish of the military style wool gabardine as it fell around him. He glared down his nose at the urchin with hard eyes and a curl to his lip.
The urchin standing before him seemed entirely un-fazed. The level of filth the boy was coated in made Daniel’s skin crawl. Were all children so grubby? They all seemed somewhat sticky in his limited experience.
“What,” he said, voice razor-sharp, “do you want?”
A sly look crossed the painfully thin face – in dire need of soap, or maybe some kind of industrial cleaner, Daniel mused – and the child said, “Well… a sammich’d be nice, I suppose.”
Daniel reined in his temper as well as he could. “You chased me down, groped at me with your filthy little hands… for a… a… sandwich?”
“What?” the child widened his eyes in false confusion. “Nah. You just asked what I wanted, didncha? I hollered at’cha ‘cause I got sunthin you want. Leastwise, if yer that poncey PI what’s lookin’ into the Morningside murder.”
The PI – the only PI with a lick of fashion sense in the whole damned city, and, yes, he moisturized, but was that a crime? And for god sake, could none of the others gather the will to shave on a daily basis? Was that so much to ask? And he got plenty of action from the ladies, thankyouverymuch – held the urge to box the brat’s ears in check by a hair.
He settled for saying, “If by poncey, you mean, ‘that PI who doesn’t look like a homeless booze-hound’, then yes. What do you know?”
Thumbs stuck cockily in the front of his suspenders, the boy smirked. “Well, now, mister, I recon I’ll remember a bit better with a sammich in my belly… and a spot to lay low for a few days. Bit of security, eh?”
“Protection from what, exactly?” Daniel found himself intrigued in spite of himself. Despite the off-the-cuff seeming request, the boy couldn’t entirely hide the fear behind the façade.
“From who, more like,” the boy replied with a shrug. “Don’t expect I was supposed to see what I done seen, now, was I?”
Everything the boy touched gained faint brown fingerprints. Front hallway, leather sofa-back, kitchen table and chair, all of the washroom, Daniel mentally enumerated the parts of his apartment that would need a good cleaning while the boy devoured a second ham on rye. Perhaps he’d just throw out that plate and cup.
The boy guzzled back a tall glass of milk, wiping his face with an equally grubby coat-sleeve. He leaned back with a contented sigh, and Daniel took that as a cue, shifting forward in his own seat.
“What do you know of the Morningside murder?”
“Banker shot dead in ‘is bathroom- onna toilet, hah, what a way to go, eh? – door locked from the inside, and no way anyone could have escaped through that tiny little window. Police says it’s suicide, but the wife – real looker, big – “ the boy stopped midway through a crude gesture at the look in Daniel’s eye and hastily said “… er… assets… says it’s no suicide, hires you on.”
“If I wanted a news blurb, I’d have gotten a newspaper – would have left a hell of a lot less mess in my house.”
“Newspapers know there weren’t no gun in there with him?” The boy looked smug when he saw Daniel’s tense reaction.
“Now how would you know that?”
“I saw how it went down, didn’t I? Know where the gun is too.”
Daniel sighed, seeing that business-like expression return to the boy’s face. “And you want more than just a few sandwiches and a bunk for a few days.”
The boy’s smile grew predatory. “I wants me a, whatchacallit – a ‘prenticeship. With lodgin’s. And food.”
Daniel frowned at the feeling of indefinite dread rising in his stomach. “An apprenticeship in what? With whom? And what on earth gives you the impression I’ve got that kind of connection?”
“With you, a’course!”
The dread coalesced into a terrible form. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and closed his eyes. The case had been going bloody nowhere, but the boy was so very… filthy. The thought of him hanging about longer than was absolutely necessary was repugnant. His entire apartment already smelled a bit like the fisherman’s wharf.
“If you’ve really seen something that can wrap this case up for me, get Mrs. Whytham-Jones off my back…” Daniel struggled to tamp down his trepidation. Damn, he hated children. “Then I’ll give you an apprenticeship.”
The boy let out a whoop of glee, and Daniel added sharply, “On a trial basis – and if you give me any trouble, you’re out on your ass.” He wondered if ‘ass’ was considered a swear word… wondered if he was allowed to swear around children, uneasy that there was some kind of rule about it. He’d bring it up with his landlady tomorrow. Mrs. Scheffield had once had children, he thought. A long time ago, maybe.
“And you have to bathe. Every day.” Daniel glared at the grinning boy. He couldn’t even take the young con artist’s words seriously in the state he was in. The boy was better suited to sewer maintenance than PI work, that much was clear. “In fact… now. Go run yourself a bath and I’ll find something for you to wear, and then I want to hear everything you know about that bloody bathroom.”
“Sure thing, Mister.” The boy jumped up and trotted towards the washroom. One grubby hand on the door-frame – leaving yet another smear to decontaminate later, Daniel noted grimly – he twisted back to Daniel, eyes sparkling. “And they call me Scrapper.”