Private Eye: Eugene Leftowicz

A solitary man stood leaning against a lamppost. He wore a light-colored trench coat with the belt pulled tight and the collar turned up against the chilling breeze. His hat was slouched low on his forehead, a cigarette dangled carelessly from his mouth. He had no intention of being a child's role model. His shirt was white and with it he wore a dark tie, dark trousers, and dark socks. Before he had left his house, his mother had reminded him to put on clean underwear, just in case. When your job is fighting crime you have a God-given duty to look presentable. He held a newspaper as if reading; his veiled eyes darting about, watching, always watching. Ears were attuned for any unusual sound. Shamus, Private Dick, Private Investigator, Private Eye, Gumshoe, call him what you will. His name was Eugene Leftowicz. Friends, if he had any, which he didn't, wouldn't have called him Gene or Lefty, they would have called him Eugene. His mother insisted on it. He had a dirty job to do, in the dirtiest part of a dirty town. He was a man of honor. That's a word you don't hear much any more in this corrupt world. He was a man in no man's land. His job was to uncover the truth in all its ugliness. He'd leave no stone unturned to fulfill his contracted duty to his client, and he would do it with discretion and loyalty.