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Business had been particularly bad that week. I was clean out of change for the electricity meter, all that was keeping my office lit were the neon signs and burned-out cars on the street below. Nope, it wasn't a particularly glamorous life as a private detective in this city.

It wasn't the way I had planned it at all. I'd intended to go Stateside and join the CIA or the FBI, but some smartarse had suggested I stay here and work for the CBI. I was told they were the British equivalent of the CIA and FBI rolled into one, but by the time I found out they weren't, I was past my prime and even the longest arm of the law wouldn't shake my hand. So, I ended up as a PI working out of a dark, dingy office on the wrong side of town, and I didn't dare join the RAC or buy furniture from MFI either.

My office was cast further into shadow when a woman's figure appeared in my doorway. The door had succumbed to the woodworm and fallen off its hinges some months ago, and I hadn't had the money to repair it. Her silhouette wasn't so much hourglass as grandfather clock. Slowly, she made her way to my desk and sat down. I asked her to get off the desk and sit on a chair instead. The desk heaved a sigh of relief.

I asked her name, she told me she was Sheryl, Sheryl Samscottico. She handed me over a piece of paper with the names of two crack-shots scrawled on it, she wanted me to check them out and tell her which was the "better bet". I was grateful for the work, but I was equally grateful for the piece of paper she gave me. I could burn that for lighting, that's if I could afford a box of matches, that is ...

Anyway, I squinted my eyes and gazed at the names on the paper. Dave Barr and Spence Fischer. They didn't ring a bell, so I asked Sheryl if she had anything for me to start on. She told me they'd been working out of Murrayfield over on the west side of town, and with that left my office saying she'd be back the next day with my fee. I set to work straight away.

The first place I headed was the Psychidelic Hedgehog, regular hang-out of Sammy the Snout. He had the dirt on anybody who was anybody in this city. Getting there meant legging it or hailing a taxi, that's if any taxi driver was brave enough to stop long enough to pick me up. Boy, the kids in this area could have the wheels off a car in seconds flat. There was an F1 team once took on a couple of them as trainees, but the problem was that they kept on siphoning the fuel out of the cars rather than putting more in. So, I put on my crash helmet and shoulder pads and dashed for the safety of the Hedgehog. When I say safety, I was able to take my helmet off ... the hoods there only hit you where the bruises won't show. Sammy was at his usual table, just as I had expected.

I got a couple of beers from the bar and sat down opposite him. I mentioned the names the woman gave me, asked him if he knew anything about the guys. He said he certainly did have some stuff on them, gestured for me to move a bit closer and then began talking in hushed tones.

Barr and Fischer were part of a mob over here working for a guy named Gentleman Jim, they did work for him all over Europe this Spring. Sammy said they hadn't made themselves popular in a lot of places for a lot of reasons, but that's where he left it. I offered him another beer for some more info, but his lips were sealed. Maybe he felt he'd already said too much, or maybe he knew I had put the beers on his tab anyway. Whatever, I was on my own now.

Luckily, I wasn't totally reliant on snitches like Sammy for my knowledge, I was still capable of going out and sussing out a case on my own. I knew where to get hold of the information I needed to finish off the case, this time it was surveillance videotapes I got my hands on. They did the trick nicely.

I can understand why Sammy didn't want to say too much to me. Barr had made a couple of hits on a guy named Al, a.k.a The Dutchman, and his firm. Al was raging after the second one. Fischer, meanwhile, had incurred the wrath of Frankfurt's no.1, The Grandfather. Gentleman Jim's mob had always had the upper hand over the Frankfurt boys, but Fischer's last outing against them was soon followed by The Grandfather being "pushed out". Yes, some of their work was good, really good, there were even a couple of times where they pulled the job out of the fire just in the nick of time. So far so good.

That was only the start of it, though. It appears they hadn't made friends with everyone over here with their "work". Sure, some folk preferred one to the other, but on first impressions, I found both had their drawbacks. Closer scrutiny of the tapes was needed.

Take Barr, he looked a bit reluctant to let go and took a lot of unnecessary hits as a result. When your followers see that, of course they're going to kick up a fuss. Of course, his minders didn't always do the best of jobs, but nonetheless people had higher expectations of him. With Fischer, it was kind of the other way round. If anything, he was a bit too trigger happy, missed his target a bit too often for comfort, and when you're like that you're going to give the game away sooner or later.

The things that gave me the full picture were a couple of tapes which made their way to me from London. Twice that year, Gentleman Jim's guys had taken on a mob of jellied-eel eaters from down south. Now, London were as harmless as a balloon on a stick but twice they came out the better off. Fischer was the lead guy for the first confrontation, Barr was the main man for the fight on their own patch. Both times, they'd get the hard part of the work done, but they just couldn't finish the London boys off when it mattered. The problem was worsened because Jim's long-range marksmen didn't always hit the target either.

Time was running out. I'd spent the whole night looking at the tapes, now it was morning. My eyes were as red as the fire engine outside dousing the flames in the car across the road. I got up and made myself an early morning pick-me-up coffee, I thought nice and strong would be best since I still had to draw my conclusions and recommend one of the guys to Sheryl. I definitely had my mind on things other than my coffee cup, something which became clear when I stuck the spoon in and it stood up straight.

I retired to the chair behind my desk and shuffled my notes. Barr or Fischer? Fischer or Barr? It was so difficult to decide, but by the end of the day I had to give one or other the nod. This job had turned out to be a lot more difficult than I had thought. I might be a two-bit private detective on the wrong side of town, but when someone comes to me for help I do the best I can.

Sheryl was obviously a woman in a hurry, because I didn't have too long to deliberate before she returned. This time, she was accompanied by an equally large man by the name of Ron, who carried with him a large black briefcase. She explained that inside the case was the fee she was going pay me for my findings. By the look of the case and the strain showing on Ron's face from carrying it, Sheryl was obviously a woman generous with her money, if not her time. Once more, she sat down opposite me at my desk, then asked me what I had found out. I wasn't sure if she would like what I was going to say, but what the hell.

I told her that both guys had their good points and their bad points. Both had done some good stuff when they were over here, but neither were the reliable triggerman she was looking for. They had their own distinct ways, but they came up with similar numbers in the end. With that in mind, I said, I wasn't able to recommend either of them.

Seeing the disappointment in Sheryl's face and fearing she may set Ron onto me, I quickly offered her the name of a possible alternative. Buffalo Jim was a popular chap, well known round these parts for his past escapades, and would still have been here had he not been kidnapped by a grey-haired guy from NY State. I suggested she track him down and see if he could be of any help. She seemed happy, gestured to Ron to put the case on my desk, before they both left.

Boy, was it heavy. I reckoned there must have been about a million in it. Man! One night's work and I was made for life, I could move out of this place and get myself a smart bachelor pad somewhere a bit more up-market. I could wave the rats and the woodworm and the pool hall goodbye for once and for all. My hands were trembling as I opened the catches on the case, then looked inside ...

I knew I couldn't be so lucky. Certainly, Sheryl had paid my fee, but a more modest one than I had hoped for. The reason the case was so heavy was because she had paid me in pennies. With more than a touch of disappointment, I realised I couldn't leave the PI business yet after all, but at least I had some change for the electricity meter now ...

Alan Gibson