Richard stood at attention, stewing bitterly as he waited for Tucson Sam to arrive, a yawning shadow concealing his presence. The streetlights shone brightly and unobstructed, no fog to soften the glow. Tucson’s lack of humidity ruined any chance for a proper feeling of noir; presumably, that’s why the sultry saxophone player never made an entrance.

He checked his watch; it was ten minutes to midnight, exactly a minute later than the last time he checked. Richard snarled as he let out an exasperated sigh. He couldn’t believe he had been reduced to seeking favors from a flamboyant spaz in Spandex. The situation stunk like a hippie’s hamper, only a difference of opinion separating it from being compost.

His ears perked up at every sound, but quickly deflated as they recognized the pattern. The shuffle of a homeless derelict’s feet, the garbled bawl of a drunkard, the occasional stray cat rustling a garbage can. He strained to pick up the sound he expected, and finally heard it – unmistakable bursts of ersatz stealth, followed by at attempt at dramatic silence. Richard bolted across the street to another shadow, the darkness engulfing him, and waited for Sam to arrive.

The cartoonish homage to tip-toe sneaking approached him, then stopped suddenly; Sam was undoubtedly ready to spring. At a precise moment derived from Richard’s intuition, he leaped out of the shadow and in front of Sam, cutting off his booming greeting. “Eveni–AAAAUGH!”

Richard made a pointless motion of dusting off the front of his pants. “Well, that wasn’t very stealthy.”

Sam glared wildly. “Damn it, man, you scared the crap out of me!”

“Hey, stealth is a big part of my profession, too,” Richard reminded. “You’re not the only one with chops.”

He watched Sam panting, trying to catch his breath, hunched with his hands on his knees. Finally, he looked up. “Still, that’s a score of two to one, my favor.”

Richard smirked. “The night is still young.”

Sam checked his watch. “But it’s just past midnight…technically, this is morning.”

“Then…the morning is still young?”

Sam stared forward, wide eyed, a goofy grin blooming on his face. “I…cannot refute that argument.” He pulled out his phone. “Before we start, how about a few selfies? Commemorate the event?”

“No, let’s not do that,” Richard dismissed.

“Oh, come on!” Sam chided. “How often do you dress up as a cowboy? I must say, you in an all-black jean outfit really gives off a Johnny Cash vibe. Very dignified!”

Richard sighed. “Oh, fine.”

They posed for two pictures with Sam’s phone and one with Richard’s, then Sam took Richard’s phone for two more photos. “I have naturally long selfie-taking arms,” Sam gushed.

They put their phones away. “So are you ready for this?”

Richard opened his belt pouch and produced a lidded plastic container. “All ready to take a fungus sample.”

“Excellent!” Sam pulled a map from a hidden pocket on the front of his outfit and unfolded it. “We start just down the street, and if we follow this path precisely, we should find the answer to your glowing fungus. Ready?”

“Lead the way!” Richard offered. Sam bounded down the street, Richard following behind.

He turned down an alley. “I was concerned the route might no longer be available, but this part of town hasn’t changed in forty years, so we’re probably OK.”

Richard glanced nervously at the buildings looming over them, each window a black whirlpool of abyssal gloom. “Shouldn’t we be quiet?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Sam explained. “It wasn’t before. And this way, any thug not wishing to tangle with two bruisers like us will have plenty of time to skulk away.” He ascended a short flight of stairs and opened a door, finding a dingy hallway.

“Do we have to follow this path at a particular speed?” Richard asked.

“There seems to be no need. My impression, from the way it happened last time, is that this is some sort of fourth-dimensional maze, and as long as we follow it, we’ll descend – or whatever direction it is – into the border world.”

Richard shrugged and continued to follow. Sam turned left, following another corridor, and emerged outside through a fire exit.

He looked back at Richard and smiled. “I must say, you’re certainly bringing an interesting twist to my story.”

“Huh?” Richard objected. “It’s you that’s helping me with my story.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam chided. “I’m the obvious protagonist here. For one thing, I’m a much more colorful character!” He smiled wistfully as he left the alleyway and cut diagonally across an empty street. “So much has happened since I first encountered you…positively episodic! There’s easily enough material to fill at least three issues of a comic book series.”

“Look,” Richard sighed, “I’m not trying to resume our earlier bickering, but has it occurred to you that you’re just the comic relief?”

Sam flashed Richard a withering glare, just before entering another building through a side door. “Not to point fingers or anything, but aren’t you a bit bland for a protagonist? What with the generic tan suit and the hangdog expression.”

“It’s not hangdog!” Richard protested. “It’s supposed to be a blank expression, like a poker face. Also, I’m trying to avoid getting premature wrinkles; that’s a real problem in this part of the world.”

Sam stopped to look in Richard’s eyes before walking into a small warehouse area with its own loading dock. “The look in your eyes is hangdog, too. You could stand to brighten your gaze.”

There was a long pause before Richard continued. “Fair enough.” He thought of all the reasons for the look in his eyes, then abruptly cut off the rumination. Sam counted three loading-bay openings, then opened the fourth one, exiting through the dead center and closing the sectional door behind him.

Sam jumped down from the dock and strolled straight across the street. “Still, that doesn’t settle which one of us is the deuteragonist.”

“Can’t we just share the billing?” Richard pleaded. “How about if we’re semi-dual-protagonists?”

“Sure, why not,” Sam chortled. “It can be like a crossover episode. Your guest appearance in my comic book can help boost sales of your pulp novel.” He turned to smirk at Richard. “After all, it’s unlikely a pulp novel is going to help sell a comic book.”

Richard seethed as he continued to follow Sam in silence. He felt it was obvious that comic relief was the only possible purpose for Sam’s appearance in a detective tale.