My Nose Is Hard

Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle. Louis The Retch poked it into his back. “The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.” Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame, alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name. She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse, undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse, then slipping out of her slip and her hose, and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those. He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded. She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded. She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab, but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed. The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue. He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait, and walked right in to a date with fate. That darn dame had put him on the spot. He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught. The warehouse was full of contraband goods. They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood -- lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,” dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling, a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler, who played for keeps and went for the jugular. And now The Retch had gotten the drop. No chance for Murk to call for the cops. “It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said, “The only way out is to go down dead.” “You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug. He knew he was beat and waited for the slug. A bullet in the back was the final payoff. Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off. Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer and waited for death in his taciturn manner. Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight. The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate. The Retch went down with blood on his chest, then high heels approached; you know the rest. Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms. She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed. And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole, playing so well the Romeo role. He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste! Then he took her hand and led her out into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched. Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops? Or let love fill his head with mushy slop? The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you, but as for me, I haven’t a clue.