He had a fidgety manner that got on my nerves, a high nasally voice that broke without rhyme or reason. Something told me I should reach for my revolver. An instinct built on years of listening to desperate men who finally get some nookie at the office and stumble into my life babbling of murder plots and gorgeous dames. That instinct was telling me that I could probably shoot him dead and avoid listening to him verbally assault me any further. That instinct had me so distracted with thoughts of pummeling Mr. Twitty with a polo mallet that I almost missed the most important thing he was telling me:

"I'll pay you fifty dollars a day, plus expenses if you'll investigate this - this - Jezebel!"

"Her name is Jezebel?" I asked, pouring myself another slug of liquid fire and knocking it back to deaden my nerves against the C flat notes he kept hitting.

"No sir, her name is Ms. Perty Guttfahk. She works at this address."