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The letter was tear-stained, like so many of the checks that came in to pay my bills. It smelt like expensive perfume, more expensive than a flatfoot like me could ever afford. Sure, I had a stash of bitcoins that would make me rich someday, but every two-bit scam artist west of the Rockies was in on that game. The dame had seen my business card, and she sounded desperate. The kind of desperation that pays well if you're nice with the ladies like I am. They get no funny stuff from me - I carried my neighbour's typewriter across town and only wanted a cup of joe for it. Never understood why she only likes the kind of musclebound slimeballs I usually run in for breaking bail, but that's dames for you. "Your the only one who can help," said the letter, "something has happened to my brother and I need to find out. I can pay cash." My reply didn't take long - with the bills piling up and work thin on the ground, only had one response. One word, underlined. So she'd understand. "You're"
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Sep 24, 2014 16:53
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| # ¿ May 22, 2024 16:31 |
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