absolute dreck
The dame walked like a lady, talked like a lady, but she sure as hell didn’t sit like a lady. Her knees split out catty corner, like a clock stuck on 7:18, the beet-red handbag she dropped on the floor marking six. She pawed through the purse, dredging from its depths a pack of smokes. The pack hit her wrist, one two. Thump thump.
Slipping one of the sticks into her mouth, she looked at me. Now, I hesitate to use the word ‘acknowledged’, since she was the type who could know someone his entire life and never acknowledge him. Wide, brown eyes, just like Bambi’s; or at least, they would be if Bambi had been a promiscuous German screen siren instead of some cartoon deer.
“Got a light?” she purred.
“Sure, kid.” I leaned forward and flicked on my desk lamp.
Her eyes narrowed, and the cigarette rolled across her tongue, like a man rolling over in the bed of a cheap motel to find that the sultry salsa mama you took home last night left you with nothing but an empty wallet and a broken heart. “Smartass,” she snapped, and reached across my desk, ruby-tipped fingers scavenging my front pocket until she located my Zippo.
“’Good Luck With The Detective Business! I Love You - Mom.’” This broad made the inscription on my lighter sounded like the pornography you have to go through a back-alley to get, the kind even the white-faced guy dripping sweat is ashamed to sell.
The cigarette flared up, smoke winding around her face, a wispy frame done in baroque. I could already tell that she was the type who inhaled too long, who ashed too often.
I stared at her. She stared out the window. Smoke, smoke. Tap, tap. Finally, that head, as innocuous as a viper in a litter of puppies, made it’s way back around to me.
Smoke, smoke. Tap, tap. In a voice that made peddling Boy Scouts hit puberty, she said, sounding important enough that angel's trumpets played in the back of my mind, “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”
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The wind, siphoned from the oil-slicked bay to rush and rebound between steel citadels, turning to high-speed, glacial gusts in a phenomenon top scientests have dubbed, "Well, that's New York for you", slammed into us as we left the diner. Kitty huddled against the building, lighting up another cigarette. I didn't know how many she'd had today; I'm a detective, not a mathmetician. I did know that we never needed to stop and get more.
As I mulled over the possibility that Kitty had a safe somewhere stocked with Malboros, a guy came up and hassled me for a quarter. "I'll do you one better," I said, and flipped him two bits. He staggered away, and Kitty stepped up beside me.
Her voice was loaded with the loathing people with money have for people who don't. "Don't you know," she said - tap tap! - "he's only gonna spend it on booze?"
I snatched the cigarette from her pretty pillow mouth and threw it on the ground. "What do you think I was planning on spending it on? Now, we're both happy." I looked her up and down, then shook my head and stomped on the smoldering roll of tobacco.
"Well, he's happy, at least." I turned and headed to the curb to hail a cab, leaving Kitty wide-eyed and white-knuckled behind me.
Slipping one of the sticks into her mouth, she looked at me. Now, I hesitate to use the word ‘acknowledged’, since she was the type who could know someone his entire life and never acknowledge him. Wide, brown eyes, just like Bambi’s; or at least, they would be if Bambi had been a promiscuous German screen siren instead of some cartoon deer.
“Got a light?” she purred.
“Sure, kid.” I leaned forward and flicked on my desk lamp.
Her eyes narrowed, and the cigarette rolled across her tongue, like a man rolling over in the bed of a cheap motel to find that the sultry salsa mama you took home last night left you with nothing but an empty wallet and a broken heart. “Smartass,” she snapped, and reached across my desk, ruby-tipped fingers scavenging my front pocket until she located my Zippo.
“’Good Luck With The Detective Business! I Love You - Mom.’” This broad made the inscription on my lighter sounded like the pornography you have to go through a back-alley to get, the kind even the white-faced guy dripping sweat is ashamed to sell.
The cigarette flared up, smoke winding around her face, a wispy frame done in baroque. I could already tell that she was the type who inhaled too long, who ashed too often.
I stared at her. She stared out the window. Smoke, smoke. Tap, tap. Finally, that head, as innocuous as a viper in a litter of puppies, made it’s way back around to me.
Smoke, smoke. Tap, tap. In a voice that made peddling Boy Scouts hit puberty, she said, sounding important enough that angel's trumpets played in the back of my mind, “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”
--------------------------------
The wind, siphoned from the oil-slicked bay to rush and rebound between steel citadels, turning to high-speed, glacial gusts in a phenomenon top scientests have dubbed, "Well, that's New York for you", slammed into us as we left the diner. Kitty huddled against the building, lighting up another cigarette. I didn't know how many she'd had today; I'm a detective, not a mathmetician. I did know that we never needed to stop and get more.
As I mulled over the possibility that Kitty had a safe somewhere stocked with Malboros, a guy came up and hassled me for a quarter. "I'll do you one better," I said, and flipped him two bits. He staggered away, and Kitty stepped up beside me.
Her voice was loaded with the loathing people with money have for people who don't. "Don't you know," she said - tap tap! - "he's only gonna spend it on booze?"
I snatched the cigarette from her pretty pillow mouth and threw it on the ground. "What do you think I was planning on spending it on? Now, we're both happy." I looked her up and down, then shook my head and stomped on the smoldering roll of tobacco.
"Well, he's happy, at least." I turned and headed to the curb to hail a cab, leaving Kitty wide-eyed and white-knuckled behind me.