Rule number seven of being a private eye is never fess up to what you’re doing while on assignment, even if you’re caught pants down flaming lipped red handed. Never. Deny as long as you can. If that doesn’t work play dumb. If that doesn’t work, play dead. I once was apprehended outside this dame’s place while she was sucking off her husband’s business partner by these two friendly, respectful, no good sons of bitches in blue. They were shaking me down as hard as they could and if I were a tree I’d have dropped coconuts, but I kept repeating, “I’m just passing through.” After they got tired of beating the shit out of me they let me go sure enough. No coconuts for them. Sons of bitches.
It’s why nowadays I’ll not wear my nice Florsheims unless it’s a real casual, safe type of deal. Most other things can be mended up — shirts, jackets, trousers, ties, even your face if it’ll make you feel better. But once shoes are blown they’re blown forever and not even Gepetto can make them dance for you. I’ve gone through five pairs of Florsheims and I’m down to my last one ever since the factory of theirs closed down and they moved their operation to Toronto. These babies have to last until I’m a door stop.
Rule number eight is never get caught without a hat.