Self-Interest
She was the most beautiful dame I’d seen in this pit of a city, and she was sitting in my office, her legs crossed in a way at once prim and provocative. Her hair was shockingly red, two shades brighter than I thought was possible this deep in the city’s grime.
And she was crying.
"I, I think I need your help," she said. "Please?"
Well, what else could I do?
Exactly what I did do: Kick her out on the curb and have nothing to do with her. I’ve read enough detective novels to know how this turns out.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment