Jonathon was just on the verge of a nap, the tendrils of sleep wrapping themselves around his brain, before the small ringing of the doorbell shatter the gateway to the Land of Nod. Teeth, annoyed, clamp down on the cigarette, sending ash sprinkling onto his shirt. For a moment, the young man considers ignoring it and trying to lure the Sandman back to him, but then the thought of money crosses his mind. With a small groan, the Private Detective stands and stretches, banishing the last vestiges of a dream back to where it came from. His eyes blink open as he corrects his hat and removes the dead cigarette, not even glancing down as he flicked it towards the wastebasket.<br/><br/>“Rosie, my dove, will you get the door? No? Oh, your sister is on the phone? By all means, continue to talk to her instead of doing your job,” Jon snaps at the desk nearest the door. With a sigh, his hand reaches in his back right pocket and produces a crumpled and, unfortunately, empty cigarette container. He crushes it in his hand before tossing it in the general direction of the wastebasket (missing by a good foot) and reached in the desk for a new pack. His right hand moves the small white object to his mouth as his left snatches a Zippo out of the same drawer.<span style="font-style: italic">I’ve been looking for this!</span>he thinks as he flips open the tiny metal box, managing to produce a flame at the same time. After inhaling the first, delicious and toxic lungful of smoke, he exhales, watching it disperse before remembering,<span style="font-style: italic">Oh, shit. There is someone at the door!</span><br/><br/><br/>The young man, now flustered, rushes to the door, almost toppling over a chair in the way. He pushed it back towards the desk where it belongs, all the while cursing the chair and both the company that made it and the forest it came from, before getting to the door. Jonathon pauses, running a mental checklist to make himself presentable. His hat is lifted to help pat down his unruly brown hair. Next is the straightening and retightening of the tie, quickly followed by a brushing off of all of the ash that collected on his during his nap. Jonathon’s eyebrows raise up, an idea forming in his head. The fedora is tossed back onto his desk and a cigarette is tucked behind his right ear.<span style="font-style: italic">there. Now I look like a grizzled detective!</span>he thinks as he loosens his tie again. His right hand grips the doorknob and he opens it, admittedly a little abruptly. “Aye? I don’t sell soap. I’m a detective. Read the plate.” He gestures to the nameplate, his natural Irish accent just accenting his words, enough to make them different, but slight enough to be ignored by the casual listener. His amber eyes look deeply into her own, before registering<span style="font-style: italic">Oh shit, this is a client!</span>He coughs, then says, in a quieter and much friendlier tone, “I apologize. People come here all the time trying to buy soap. Won’t you come in?” His hand gestures inside, to the desk right in front of the window.<br/><br/>In front of the desk is a wooden chair much like the other wooden chairs in the room. On top of the desk is a beat up fedora, open pack of cigarette, and an ash tray with some ashes and a bent cigarette butt. On the opposite side of the desk is a notepad, a pencil, and a revolver on its side. Jonathon is already walking back to his desk, slipping into the chair in front of the window and gesturing to the chair in front of him. He places the hat on a far corner of the desk, over the revolver. He picks up the pencil, opens the notepad, licks the tip of the pencil, then presses the point against the paper.<br/><br/><br/>It is time to work.