He raises his eyebrows at you, a smirk resting comfortably on his lips.
"Is that right, Sweetheart?"
"Yes. It is. And that's another thing, I'm not your Sweetheart. And I'd advise you to stop calling me that."
"Well, aren't you just a spitfire. I'll tell you what, kid, I'm going to go deal with Carter's business. You can just sit tight here, I'll be out in a few." He looks at you as if you're a ticking time bomb, and he'd like to see you go off.
You suppress a whine of protest.
"Fine. I won't stop you from doing your work. But the second you're done, you are taking me back, got it?" You fix him with the sternest look you can muster.
"Whatever you like," he says, rolling his eyes and flicking his finished cigar.
He ducks into the doorway, only to reappear a second later.
"Oh, and Sweetheart," he says, a wry smile claiming his face, "try to enjoy yourself while you're out here. It's not everyday you're in 1923."
He reappears an hour later.
"Kid, are you ready to go now?"
"No, I was ready to go an hour ago," you say, seething.
"Whoa, cool it, Scout. I'll take you back to the office."
Back in the office, he scoffs at you, "So, first day on the job, exciting, isn't it?"
"Look, I didn't ask for this."
"None of us did." He says, suddenly serious. "That's the funny thing about this job: you can run away from it, but it'll always come back for you. You can't fight it, you're a born Detective." He smiles at you, a real one this time. Laugh lines form in the corners of his eyes.
"And, Sweetheart, we could really use your spunk."
The End.
- s.s.
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