<em>There are certain narrative conventions, dear reader, which must be followed: purple prose, hyperbole, and the strident demands of comedic timing.  In the same way that, say, a theatrical company is always on the verge of bankruptcy and emotive implosion yet still holds together well enough for the show to go on as planned, any private detective agency has certain unavoidable rules.  Observe:<br/><br/>The rent is always late.  <br/>The landlady is always threatening to evict you.  <br/>There is always a half-full bottle of whiskey in a desk drawer.<br/>It's always a hot and muggy afternoon when the next desperate yet overly complicated case walks in without an appointment and offers just enough money to tide the landlady over until the next month.<br/><br/>Please bear with us while we dismantle a few traditional expectations.</em><br/><br/>It was a soggy Tuesday morning, with half the Pacific whipped to a frenzy against the rocky beaches around Pebble City as the other half fell from the leaden skies to puddle in the streets and drum on the office windows of Bloom and Colt, Investigators for Hire.  Half-past breakfast, it seemed as though things would simply be dead slow, leaving the two with plenty of time and privacy to do whatever PIs do between cases...