Put The Sepia On by Nick Feldman Page A

relatives.
    Yeah, and those hips are all right, too, but the eyes are where she really has it. Grey, an d sad, and just a little scared. But determined, like an unusually brave baby deer… or a she-wolf doing her very best impression of one. That may sound like a dig, but I’ll take a wolf over a dog any day of the week. I’ve got a little respect for a hunter; a scavenger’s just a parasite with a better ride.
    She stops a few feet from my desk. Fewer of my feet than hers, which are small and crammed into brown shoes that were probably red, and pretty classy, back when she was in diapers. She takes her time, probably waiting for me to greet her. I consider it, but it just doesn’t seem like it’ll be worth the effort. I’m not a dog or a wolf, or even a deer, but I can still smell broke. And she’s been showering in it.
    “Umm…” she starts unsure, like she’s never done this before. For all I know, she never has. And, since I’m the only PI in the city, I know plenty. She stops. Either the deer act is pitch-perfect, or she honestly doesn’t kn ow how to start. I do it for her.
    “I’ll take your name, for starters,” I say.
    “I’d… feel more comfortable if you took off your hat and sat up and looked at me.” I’d feel more comfortable looking at you too, sweetheart, but it’s been my experience that when I look too long at hips like those my asking price goes down while my medical bills go up.
    I notice myself taking off my hat and sitting up. I’m such a sucker. “That better?”
    “Much, thank you. My name is Coral. And you are…?”
    “Curious.”
    “I meant your name.”
    “ So did I.”
    “Really?
    “No.”
    I let the silence hang around for a bit, to see how she takes to it. She doesn’t.
    “I want to k now what your name is,” she says, a little pushy now. Good play if it was a play; most wolves oversell the demure and helpless bit. I was starting to trust her almost as far as I could throw her, assuming of course that I was pitching one-handed, and didn’t want to throw her very far. 
    “Yeah, but you want something else more than that, don’t you?”
    She bit her lip, which worked just how she wanted it to (if she wanted it to), and I felt bad already. Lucky for me, I’d seen that show before and I knew enough to wait for intermission before I clapped.
    “I need to find my brother,” she said, finally, and I knew it was her older brother without needing to ask. It was how unsure she seemed about the whole thing, like she was violating some family pecking order by looking out for her elder. She didn’t seem to realize he was almost definitely dead. I decided to help.
    “He’s almost definitely dead.” She didn’t like that, but she powered through. Nice thing about being number one in a field of zero plus one, you don’t have to worry about offending your clients into the arms of the competition.
    “Either way,” said the deer-wolf, “I’d like to find him. I can pay you.” And finally, she said the magic word. I stood up, stepped around the desk, and looked her in the eyes. Noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Her eyes were clean, focused. No dope.
    “Been skippin’ your meds?” I ask her, just to see if she’ll cop to it.
    “Have you?” she replies, and I almost think I hear a howl in the background.
    “Only when I’m drinking,” I say, opening the bottle. I pour myself a couple fingers. I point the bottle at her, but she shakes her head, and she looks afraid. First time in this part of town, or a damn good imitation thereof.
    “His name is Robert,” she says after a long pause where she tries to think of any option besides dealing with me and my bottle of whiskey.
    “So’s mine.”
    “Really?”
    “No. Where’d you see him last?” Silence. I pick up a pen to look more professional. Never mind that it’s out of ink.
    “Where did you see him last?” I ask her again.
    “Home.”
    “Unhelpful. I’m going to need more than