Ian Foley Poet I do not know?

My Blue Dahlia Like Impression

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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.

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