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 aspects of self defense is being aware of your surroundings, particularly the behavior of people nearby. If someone is moving against the flow ...
1 month ago