It had been a long night of too much gin and too little tonic. Seemed like the whole world was buzzing. And then she walked in. She was fly. Literally. One eye fixed on me like a golden jewel that men killed over, while the other fixed on my potato salad.

“How can I help you, Ms. …”

“Domestica, Musca Domestica.” She extended a delicate antennae. “I need you to locate these.”

She handed me photograph. It looked like a park bench, or maybe it was dung heap. It was hard to tell, because everything was covered with about a billion flies.

“Nice composition,” I said. “Who are they?”

“My relatives,” she replied trembling.