It was a cold day in January. I was sitting at my desk, waiting for a client. I had been out of work for so long my wallet was getting psychoneurosis. I was about to close up and file for bankruptcy when she called.

"Matt Cents Investigations. Put up or shut up."

"Mr. Cents, I want to hire you. My brother was murdered, and I want you to find who killed him."

I usually let the police handle these cases. I don't need any more hospital bills. However, I was broke, so I took the case.

"It'll cost $500 a day and expenses."

"Meet me at my apartment at 5:30. Room 703 at the Mortierium Estates."

I hung up. Now, I had enough money to rest my feet on my desk.

"Well, Cents, it looks like I can't evict you yet."

It was my landlord.

"What brings you here, Slade? Someone take your welcome mat?"

"Oh, har, har, Matt. You know what it is. I'm here for your rent."

"Look, Slade. I just got a client. I'll pay you tonight."

I left my office before he could get out his brass knuckles. Slade Fergonson was a good landlord; he could really "persuade" people.

I got into my blue Camaro. Historians will debate years from now how I ever afforded that car. I drove over to the Motierium Estates. As I was walking through the door I wondered if I'd get my fee. The place was as bare as a paper factory after a hurricane.

I walked past the sign that said "Bus your own room" and stepped in the elevator. There were just two questions: How could a place like this afford an elevator? And why wasn't there a seventh floor?

Walking out feeling stupid, the questions pouring down like salt on a fat man's fries. Who was she? Why did she trick me like that? Why out of all the P.I.'s did she choose me? Why am I asking these out loud? One thing was certain; I'd have to wear my bulletproof vest when I talked to Slade.

I opened up my door and got in the car. I heard the crinkling of paper and pulled out the note I had just sat on.

"Al's Window Washing, 322 Parkway Avenue," I said to myself. Not only did my office have no windows, but if it did, Slade would have broken them by now. On the back of the card were four words scrawled in red pen.

"Go to room 307." The woman in her haste had said the number backwards. I entered the apartment building. I wasn't so ready to believe the mistake when I arrived in an empty room 307. It was dark, sparsely furnished and smelly. One of these problems I knew how to fix. I took out my can of Lysol (that I keep for just such occasions) and fired in point blank at the dark. As for the lights, someone had knocked them out with a good sized hammer.

As I was wondering this, the smell came back. "Must be the 2 percent of household germs that got away," I thought to myself. I thought, that is, until I tripped over the body.

She was in her late forties with brown hair, a red sweater, and blue jeans. She weighed about 140 pounds and was about 5'6". Her lips were blue with flecks of foam on them. She had been strangled.

Usually my first step is to contact Sergeant Ugazzabody of the police. I did just that. He sounded deliriously overjoyed.

"Well, Cents, what time and how did you die?"

"Very funny, Tom. I got a body for you at 5th Ave. and 4th St. Apartment 307."

"Alright, Matt, who is it and why did you shoot them?"

"Why, sergeant, I'm offended! At least this time I can hang around for questioning."

After hanging up, I went outside. I had no intention of keeping my word, but someone else did. He yanked me into an alley and played with my spine like a slinky. After a turn down the stairs and into a door, he shoved his fist so far down my throat that my feet hurt.

"I hope you learned a lesson flatfoot. Or maybe you need a little encouragement!"

In all my years as a detective, I've never understood why mobsters have to kick guys one more time after beating them up. At this point, Nirvana was playing a 10-month tour of "Smells like Teen Spirit" in my head. At Cranium City they were arrested for obtaining an illegal substance and I stopped seeing stars and little bunny rabbits.

The purple moons were still hitting me with tissue boxes as I got in my car. I drove back to my office to get some sleep. I stopped to get some aspirin at a store. When I came out, I was beaten up by the same guy, then I got in my car and drove away.

As I pulled up to the curb I began to notice a pattern. I got my gun out, and then got out of the car. He came up behind me, planning to turn my head into Play-Doh but I had other ideas. I flipped around and my hand connected with his mouth like they were made for each other. I gave his stomach the benefit of one of my fists while I deposited the other one on his head. He went down like a toy boat hitting a torpedo.

As I was about to drag him to my office, the sergeant pulled up and saved me the trouble.

"Who is he, Cents? You sure did a number on him!" the sergeant said.

"I don't know, but he did the same to me, twice!"

"No wallet. I'll take him down to the station and lock him up. Don't go anywhere."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sergeant, bye."

We both knew I was lying, and that was further reinforced when I went to my office. There the man was with a .48 automatic in his hand. I had a distinct feeling we were going for a ride.

"Don't sit down. We're going places, Cents," the man said.

"Oh? I wouldn't be so sure about it. I just took your hired goon to the police. I'm quite confident I can do the same to you."

I was the farthest thing from confident and he seemed to know that.

"Well Louie didn't have a gun pointed at your head. Let's go."

He was momentarily distracted when a squirrel with a hacksaw ran out of the room. This is what I'd been waiting for. I kicked the gun out of his hand and swung for his face. He must have had a lot of dental crowns because it hurt me more than him. I was prepared for him to not go down in one hit, so I slammed into his stomach. I swiftly laid a hand on the back of his head and he went out.

His wallet said Joe Shoma, professional robber. "Well, he certainly isn't modest," I said to myself.

I called back my pet squirrel and scolded him for playing with my tools. I put him in his cage and took the man to the police station.

"Well, Cents, another body? You must buy them wholesale."

"Actually, sergeant, they were free samples. But don't you have some of your own?"

"Alright, who is it this time?"

"Joe Shoma, a professional robber. He just tried to knock me off in my office."

"The hired muscle you brought in said Shoma hired him to get rid of the body in the hotel."

"I have no doubt you'll peg Joe for murder. Just leave me out of it."

"What do you mean, murder, Matt?" the sergeant said. "The woman is still alive."

"Well, why was she on the floor, without a pulse?"

"Suspended animation. Someone strangled her but didn't finish the job."

"Well, where is she? Did she just waltz away?"

"She's in the hospital right next door. She hasn't told us anything."

I went over to the hospital and talked to the nurse. She said that the woman was in room 403 and able to see me.

She was in bed dressed in a hospital gown. Looking up, the woman was surprised when I came in.

"My name is Cents," I said. "Were you the one who called my office today?"

"Yes, I'm Bertha Roberts. My brother was Robert Roberts. He was shot this morning."

"Why didn't you tell the police? Also, who strangled you?"

"I didn't tell the police because I'm the top suspect and I inherit."

"What about the guy who strangled you?"

"It was dark; I couldn't see anything."

"So tell me, did your brother know a Joe Shoma?"

"Yes. Joe was mad at him because Robert sent him up for robbery. He broke into our house and got away with $5,000."

"I'll go find your brother's murderer, but I don't think I'll have far to go."

I didn't. He was right outside, waiting for me.

"You've arrested all the wrong people, Cents. Too bad you won't live to do it some more," he said.

"I suppose you killed Roberts, hoping to frame Joe. You also strangled his sister to keep her from telling me," I said. "Then I got too close to the truth so you had to rub me out."

"You got it figured out, haven't you? I killed Roberts because I learned he came into a run of dough. Nobody saw that I cracked the safe. But enough talk. It's time to finish you."

He obviously wasn't paying attention while he was talking because I was able to take his gun, handcuff him, and put him in a cell.

"The man told me his name was Frank Shalam, he's one of the biggest robbers around," said Sergeant Ugatzabody. "I guess that wraps up the case. Thanks for your help, Cents."

"It was nothing, people just like pointing guns at me."

I collected my fee from Bertha, and I'm now able to get some counseling for that lonely dollar. Being a detective is easy work.