By Ric Waters
The rain smacked against the window as I sat in my office, pondering my lack of work. I hadn’t had a case in weeks. With rent coming due soon and money scarce, I was in a bad way.
That was when the door to my detective agency swung open. A tall, slim redhead strode in. Her coat was dry, seeming to have missed the weather report.
“Frank Mulrooney?” she asked.
“That’s the name on the door, Toots.”
“Just the man I’m looking for then.”
She stopped at the wooden chair across the desk from me, lifted one long, sexy leg and set a high-heeled shoe on its seat. I couldn’t help but look at it, then up to the rack her dress so artfully displayed.
“What can I do for you?”
Her hand hiked up the hem of her dress, uncovering a shapely thigh. She slid a small, snub-nosed revolver out of a holster. “Anthony Maggliano sends his regards.”
Word on the street was that Tony “Big Tuna” Maggliano had put up a reward for my head and you don’t argue with a mafioso in the Big Apple. I held up my hands, dismayed at having been caught. Especially by a dame like this.
“Does a dying man get a last request?” I ventured.
The redhead looked down at her breasts, then smiled sweetly with a hint of evil. “Not this dying man.”
“How’s about a blindfold and a smoke?”
“Nope. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
I dropped my hands into my lap, looking defeated. She leveled the revolver at my head, so I just closed my eyes and counted the seconds before the shot rang out.
She didn’t see me reach under my desk for the .45 that took her out. She hadn’t even pulled back the hammer on her gun. I pulled the pistol up and pumped three shots into her chest, ruining her figure. The blood would be a bear to clean up, but you do what you have to in order to survive. Big Tuna would try again, but I doubted he’d put another woman on the job.
I never knew her name, but I gave her an appropriate sendoff: one big smackeroo on the lips. Then, I hauled her body to the alley beside my building. The cops would find her soon enough and write her off as another gangland murder, somebody’s mistress who crossed the line. But, them’s the breaks in this dog-eat-dog world of ours. You don’t shed a tear for a dame who chooses a life of crime.
Ric Waters is a writer and photographer from Aurora, IL, and a fan of pop culture. He writes a variety of genre, including science fiction, historical fiction and suspense.