It was quarter to six on a Friday when she came strolling back into my office. I was cleaning my gun and thinking about the pot roast dinner at Georgia’s, when who was standing at the door but my blonde dynamo with the finest legs in L.A. and nipples that could cut glass.
“Weren’t you doing that the last time I was here?” she asked, sauntering over to my desk like she owned the joint. Neon light from the dive across the street cut through the evening smog, reflecting off her glittering stilettos. She picked up a stray bullet and held it to her scarlet mouth like a tube of lipstick.
“Maybe,” I said back. “I like a clean gun. Clean gun, easy mind, I always say.”
“Well, by all means, finish. I certainly want you to have a clear head.”
“Maybe you want to finish for me.”
She leaned over the desk and smiled. I could see halfway to China down her blouse. And she knew it.
“I didn’t come here to play games, Mr. McCroon. I came to find out about my husband.”
“Well, the wait is over. I found him. I found your husband, the millionaire, Harrington Sweetwater.”
She gasped a little, dropping the bullet and putting her hand over her mouth. “Yes? And? Was he with – another woman?”
I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk and pulled out a hard-boiled egg. I cracked it on the surface of the desk, rolled it around and broke the shell off in one whole piece. Then I took a big bite and reached back in the drawer for the raven-haired wig I’d recovered from the mansion only a few hours earlier. I threw it onto the desk, where it flopped lifelessly.
“I found your husband alright, Mrs. Sweetwater,” I said, holding half the egg. “He was with Senator Barry. And I’m sorry to tell you, toots, but your husband – he’s the other woman.”