He turned away from the plane and walked back into the shadows of the city. He had a drink to catch up on, and a new story to write in the next volume of his life.
Bogart leaned back, his eyes narrowing. He lived by a simple code: the world is always one drink behind. He knew that finding a missing person in this town was like trying to find a honest man in a den of thieves. But for a beautiful fox, he was willing to try.
The confrontation was swift. In a flurry of punches and wisecracks, Bogart cleared the room. He didn't need a gun; he had the "magic names" of his ancestors and a survival instinct that wouldn't quit.
He started his investigation the only way he knew how—by finding the nearest bad guy and punching him in the face. It didn't matter if the guy knew anything; in Bogart's world, everyone was guilty of something.
As the sun began to rise over the Mediterranean, Bogart stood on the tarmac, watching the fox and her sister board a plane to Lisbon. He knew he’d never see her again, but that was the life he chose.
The door creaked open, and in walked a fox—not a metaphorical one, but a literal, red-furred fox in a trench coat. She was looking for her sister, and Bogart, ever the gentleman, called her beautiful and took the case.
"I got held up," Bogart replied, his hand tightening into a fist. "Now, where's the girl?"
