Murder and Slow Gin

I’ve been a private eye for a long time. A lot of clients have come and gone. In all the time I’ve been on the street though, nobody I ever met quite compares to Shirley.

Shirley, was a completely different flavor of broad. She was pleasant to the eye, soft as a kitten’s fur, and the kind of femme fatale a rough as a cob old ex-cop like me might just want to settle down with and raise a family. But trouble has a funny way of cutting through a man’s dreams and getting right to the nightmare stuff. And as drop dead gorgeous as Shirley was, the second I laid eyes on her, I could tell that trouble was her very best friend.

“I’ll cut right to the chase, Mr Quick,” Shirley said to me as I looked deep into her baby blues. “I want you to kill my husband.”

“I’m not in the murder business,” I said.

She laid out fifty hundred dollar bills on the table. “I do believe you are now,” she cooed.

“I believe you’re right,” I replied, scooping up the cabbage. “What’s his name, and where can I find him?”

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