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Nick Hudson, P.I., at your service. I got two sixth-floor walk-ups in Southie, one with a desk, another with a bed, neither with a kitchen and both with serious heating problems. I spend most of my time on the streets between the two. This city's my first love, and I don't cheat--odds are, if you see me out past Brookline, I'm being paid for it. Got my license three years ago, after donating a nice big chunk of my fading youth to Uncle Sam. Compared to the hell-on-a-stick that was soldiering in the European Theater, any other job would seem damn near first-rate, but I think I'd like my current career regardless. Investigating pays the bills (or most of them), and at least I get to dodge domestic bullets instead of German ones. People keep saying I should write about what I do, so here we are. Hope you're happy.

What else. I've been a hometown fan ever since the Sox started losing. Tragic, huh? I usually go in for classic big bands (Basie, Goodman), but I've also been putting a bit of money into the new Latin jazz LP's lately. Doesn't get any better than Machito and his orchestra. Can't stand those new pop singers--pretty-boys, the lot of 'em--though I make exception for Sinatra. You gotta respect Sinatra. I was also Sam Spade's drinking buddy, for a bit, back when he came out East for a couple months. Don't believe anything you hear about the guy. Bastard still owes me money.

That's about it. Have a good read, and don't hurt yourself.

~Hudson

EDIT: Sometimes, life throws you a curveball. As of October, I'm bunking in a Greenwich Village loft and pulling surveillance duty for a government buddy of mine...two hundred miles too far from Suffolk county, but still ticking. Wish me luck; I'll need it.

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