His hand was locked shut by, what the coroner will call later on when he's laid out on a steel slab, as riga mortise. It took me damn near an hour and I had to break his fingers to get the list. There were twenty names on it. A few were smudged by his blood and sweat. His place was a dive in the 120's. He laid, sprawled out next to the kitchen nook that had a basic mini-frig, a second-hand metal frame table with a tacked on flower-patterned cover, over a circular wooden table. His bed was filled with old goose feathers on a rusted metal frame. It had old wire springs that crunched every time I moved the mattress. His mouth was open, his brown eyes had a strained look with something close to fear. His bed sat near to the only window in the room. Neon came threw that dirty window, lacking any drapes. It made his face flash pink. Someone called my office claiming to be him. The name in the wallet, Cassidy Moore, was the same name that person had given me not more than an hour ago. The voice said to meet them here at six. Said they had work for me. I wasn't that hard to get a hold of. I advertised in the locals all the time. Some in my circle found it funny to call me the 'Dime store detective'. Not being too picky about it, I used it in my advertising which sat next to his phone on the night stand. Great! Now I have a dead client, a list of possible suspects, and...1...2...3...50....seventy five bucks from his wallet for my time. Guess since he paid me, I can do him the service of finding who murdered the poor jerk. The swap-shop I was part owner of, and had my office/apartment above, was closed for the day. Kiki could re-open it tomorrow morning. I had this to do. Great, another case for Lonny Manning, The Dime store Detective. I needed a drink.