Crack

The lights went out, then.

That’s what tends to happen when a thug has just swung a metal pipe really damned hard in the direction of your unprotected head.

It was my own fault, as always. But the broad who’d brought me this cock and bull case had legs all the way up, if you catch my drift, and, well, about the rest of her… assets? Let’s just say, nature hadn’t foreclosed on her there.

But I digress. Forgive me, I’m not doing so well today.

She’d strolled into my office, sat down in my client’s chair – the one that didn’t rock, mostly – and burst into tears.

Yeah, yeah. I’m a total cliché. A run down detective, with no clients, no money and no social life. I live in my office and I own virtually nothing, except for the .45, which is still locked in my desk right next to the mostly empty bottle of cheap bourbon.

So I handed the dame a tissue, and she fed me a line. Then she offered me a retainer and expenses. Of course I fell for it.

So kill me. Then again, maybe this guy already has.