The dreary night hung over the city like a wet wool blanket. I trudged through the empty streets, my brain ticking like the engine block on an ancient Model T chugging through the desert -- overheated and on the verge of cracking. I was a blind man lost in a mental catacomb of dead ends. I needed a break, but the only breaks I seemed to find involved plaster casts and doctors. Walking through the building lobby, I glanced at the rickety elevator. Considering my latest turn of luck, I opted for the stairs. The light was on in my office, which was strange since I had not paid my power bill in over a month. Fumbling for my keys, I stared at the chipped paint on the words "Ace Harding, Private Detective," wondering how long I could afford to keep the business. If I had blinked, I would have missed the shadow flickering across the frosted glass inside my office. I unsnapped my leather holster and leaned back against the wall. Perhaps this time -- just for once -- lady luck would give me a nod and a smile.