FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I've had had three stories published this year. Possibly the best one of the bunch is my first ever mystery story. You can buy the book here:http://furplanet.com/shop/item.aspx?itemid=811

A

CASE FILE 013 - Brooklyn Blackie and the Unappetizing Menu

by Bill Kieffer

Call me Brooklyn Blackie.

I'm not your average Wolf. I'm a little on the short side. I'm half Dog; though I don't like to talk about it too much. You can't really tell by looking. There's a lot you can't tell about me by looking.

I'm a private eye with a nice office under the New Amsterdam Bridge. Sure, loose pencils dance off my desk when the EL passes overhead, but the rent was cheap. The talent scout next door shared a secretary with me, Lucy Hoke. Neither of our respectable trades being known for a steady cash flow, Lucy took messages a dime apiece for the rest of the building. The albino Cockatiel had a better head for business than I ever had.

All her feathers were fluffed in all the right places, too.

It was December 9th, and Lucy was in the office that morning when I came in. She was cheerful, and I was suspicious. "I'm just glad to see you up and about, not sleeping off a hard night at Rex's on the couch here."

I just gave her a smile. "Aren't you afraid that I'll get the insurance gig and close the office down?" I looked at her blotter-calendar upside down. I had the one appointment that day: an interview with Equine Standard. Since insurance schemes were often confused by the great unwashed with get-rich schemes, insurance companies often needed investigators for the hinkier claims.

I didn't need a secretary. Things were thin enough business-wise that I would consider firing Lucy, except that she'd just laugh in my face.

"We're a team. Where you go, I go." Lucy had seen me stick a gun in her husband's beak when he'd gotten violent with her once. She'd been attached to me since. Not because she was grateful, but because she said it'd made her hot. "Now...about those shoes."

I looked down at my feet.

I'd bought these shoes in Europe at war's end in a little village that now called itself Victory. Custom made with nails melted down from the scraps of the Mad Man's surrendered men with leathers that had been earmarked for gun holsters. I'd fought a war for these shoes.

Well, these shoes and my best friend.

"These are my lucky shoes."

"Yeah, I can tell by the blood splatter." She quipped. "Get them shined up, Brooklyn."

* * *

There are twelve other stories in there. I got lucky number 13.