The sounds of the city going into slumber, the occasional swish of tyres on the wet asphalt, the mournful wail of a siren in the distance.
Crush softpacks of Lucky Strikes and an overflowing ashtray, testament to the haze hanging in the room. A half empty bottle of Cutty Sark, a shot glass beside it, now empty.
A click clack of high heels, a cadence in the outside hallway.
The smell of perfume, slapped me in the kisser, even before the door was opened, had to be at worth at least ten bucks a bottle.
I slid open my top drawer, soundlessly, reaching for my gat, gripping it firmly. The door opened and half in the shadows, she stood, a tall glass of water for a thirsty man.
Poured into a black dress, gams like willows and cans like Buick headlights. I was lost for woids.
“Slapndtickle” she said, her voice like treacle, soft and smooth.
“Sorry, what was that?” I had found my voice.
“Ivanna Slapntickle, the notary”
“Aahh, One floor below” I croaked.
“Oh, I am so sorry for disturbing you” she slightly turned and looked at the door and read “Harry Biggan. Private Detective”
“So sorry …..Harry”.
She had me at Harry, I was a goner.
She turned and walked down the hallway, her caboose, like pistons on a loco. The last thing I saw of her, was being swallowed in the shadows, the staccato of the high heels the only sound I could hear.
My hand shook as I poured some Cutty into my glass and lit another Lucky …. “What a broad”
The Incredible Pooh @2009