Trouble

This morning's sidewalk is cold and gray, traffic sparse. Coffee awaits, if my secretary remembers. My head circulating thoughts from a case, I reluctantly took on yesterday. I'm usually more particular, I don't like cases involving blonds and their men, but, I needed the money. As I enter my office, the strong odor of coffee hits me, she remembered, this time. The steam was rising from the pot, the widows were also steaming, with lines of water rolling down each pane. We need curtains. Julie my secretary says I have a visitor, a blond, same one from yesterday. Says she's wearing a single gold earring, dried blood on the other ear. I toss my fedora on Julie's typewriter, with a not to be disturbed look. Closed the door. She was pacing back and forth, trying not to look up. Says when she got home she found an ashtray, filled with cigarette butts, some with lipstick, two empty glasses and a half filled bottle of whiskey, sitting next to an airline ticket to Hong Kong, for a flight at midnight. They argued, he slapped her a few times, until, a shot came through the front window. She's frightened, frightened of the police, frightened of the truth, both run through my head. I told her to stay here until I find some things out. But, it will cost another couple of hundred. After all I am a detective. My name, Humphrey M Falcon. contest Copped III