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MUSIC:  We walk through thick fog to the front door of a dilapidated SF office building. Background music is Harlem Nocturn, played on a tenor sax.


We enter the door and continue down the battered hallway to see lettering on the door’s glass insert:


Tony Mandolin, Private Investigator


Music fades out


INT. Small single-room office


A man in his early 40s is working on a crossword puzzle. A battered fedora hangs on a coat rack off to the side of the desk. Beneath it is an old-fashioned trench coat. The sound of a clock ticking is heard in the background. A wire basket occupies the right corner of the desk, in it is a half-eaten sandwich. Next to the basket is a stained cup of coffee.




My name is Mandolin, Tony Mandolin. And yes, I know the name is a great straight line so go ahead, get the jokes and puns out of your system, I've heard more than my share pretty much all of my thirty-plus years. What I do is find things, all sorts and I've gotten so good at it that some folks tend to think I'm gifted with some sort of ESP or mumbo jumbo. No, I'm just stubborn.

Over the years, through a combination of word of mouth and, to be honest, dumb luck, I'd managed to solve some pretty big cases and unfortunately embarrass a few influential members of San Francisco's police force.

I keep an office that could have a second career as a large coat closet. It's located in a second-floor walk-up in an office building not located in one of the fog city's better business districts. This month my in-basket held mostly bills and my out-basket held breakfast.


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