I crossed the road in front of a red 1947 Oldsmobile. Horns
honking throughout the city. She sounded young and free on the
phone when she called last night. Not meaning to clip the wing
mirror I step on to the sidewalk. The driver tipped his hat as if
hoping I was fine but drove on anyway.
I had little on that day and let my typist off. These days money was slow
for private dectectives. Maybe I might hit on her or at least get good
expenses for the job. I pushed in the buiding's front door and unloaded my
mail box. No pay checks but a warning note. Who could have dropped off this
violent threat. Some low life shmuck prepared to do a cheap hit. Yeah.
I ascended the stairs to hispanic baby cries and creaking stairwells to
my office. I visioned her drapped across my desk brown pencil skirt nylons and
long blond hair. Available. Then a cry of Phillip. I quickly juggled my coffee and
donuts to same arm that had my coat and clicked the brass handled door.
Anticpation high. Excitable and sweaty in this downtown Los Angeles heat.
Bang. A bullet riochets off the door frame splintering the wood at right
angles.The broad was not available not suductive not a flowing blond.
But dead. I looked carefully at the victim. Her habit covered in blood.
Curtains blowing inward I realised it was too late for her and I had been
framed. Needless to say there would be no pay check here.