The 26th Letter

The Depression era was a dark time in America. Businesses collapsed overnight, homes were abandoned, thousands lined up for soup. It seemed like half the country was on some form of social assistance while the other half was being torn down as a form of tax relief. Without work, life was tough, but was it any better for those who still toiled?
Consider the humble Private Investigator. Long hours, irregular pay, the only reward self-preservation. Hardly an incentive for the career minded. Which doesn’t explain Tony Ford, a long in the tooth PI, and survivor.
His lunch is liquid, his life is singular, and his attitude towards his fellow man is as grimy as the streets he prowls. It’s the usual thing, rent evictions, murders, and all the other assorted ills of the world that keeps him going. He’s not rich but he’s not dead.
Even when a complete stranger breaks up the gloom by dropping cash and a case into his lap, it’s just another day at the office. But what should have been a simple missing person turns into the race of a lifetime, with Ford hot on the trail of what could be a fortune in gems. Trouble is he’s not alone, and they are right behind him every step of the way. What’s a guy gotta do to stay alive in this town.
What Ford does is what he does best, moving hard and fast, dodging the bullets and ducking the fists. Second by second, clue by clue, on the trail and on the case right to the bitter end. Endings always seem to surprise, but then coincidence has a habit of being like that. Which begs the question, was the fortune the real goal?