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The Arrival

San Francisco is a dark city with nights even darker still. Our heroine decided to head to her friend Sylvia, the tennis champ with a distilled affection for Herman Melville. She'd always had it together, always been there for her. But she lived outside of town, in a nice suburb.

In the vast trench of tenements and strip malls, outside the bright lights of the city, but before the synchronous row-houses of the suburbs, she lost her way. As she turned onto Palomino, heading south, the street seemed to close in. Strange noises tumbled out the alleys. The buildings grew taller, blocking the moonlight. A homeless man pushed a grocery cart towards her, and she could smell his reek of sour milk and trash. A woman screamed obscenities at her from across the street. A lone sign beckoned in the distance - a neon for a Private Detective.

She stumbled into his office, well aware of the genre she was settling into. "I got a problem, Mr. Detective, a man-sized problem. Can you help me?"