It's 4 a.m., I'm in front of my computer with a cup of tea, a cigarette, and Elvis Presley is singing Heartbreak Hotel.
There is something so bleak about that sentence! I feel constrained to continue in a film noir flavor . . . .
It'd been a long day and a long, hard night. Tomorrow wasn't looking any better. The case I was working on had more curves than Marilyn Monroe dancing the watusi on San Francisco's Lombard Street.
It all started at Spike's Neon Cat Cafe. I was nursing a beer and a headache when the blonde walked into the room like trouble on an east-bound train.
She stopped at my table. "Mr. Sullen?" she breathed. "May I sit down?" She didn't wait for an answer and she didn't wait for me to stand up and pull out her chair. So she was a pushy broad, but a dame with her looks could push me pretty hard. I was in no condition to stand up anyway.
"I'm Sullen." I signaled Spike over to the table. "What can I get you, Miss - ?" I asked, as Spike gave her the once-over twice.
"Glenfiddich on the rocks, with a lime. Thank you." She took the drink, but she didn't give a name. "They told me I could find you here." she said, as Spike reluctantly walked away.
"You'll have to tell me who They are, so I can thank them."
Then what? Why won't she give him a name? Who are They? What's Mr. Sullen's first name? Do you think boxing and fixed fights will come into this story eventually? Or maybe a Red Cross scandal or - oooooh! a TSA scandal! If I have something as modern as TSA, can I still use Marilyn Monroe or do I have to switch to Demi Moore?
One of the things I always tell my students is that hand-to-hand self defense options require a high level of physical fitness. The race may not be won by ...
3 days ago