Baltimore, the Inner Harbor. The view of the Chesapeake from my office window looked the same as it did every night: silky smooth, yet underneath there was a layer of grime sitting just below the top, almost making the entire bay look like it was some sort of inky darkness, a cover that only hid the ugliness in plain sight.
The bottle of scotch on my desk was half empty, and the cigarettes were still smoldering in the ash tray. You could still smell the stains of regretful, lonely Fridays on the walls, the yellowing wallpaper just starting to peel off. Landlady said that my diet of nicotine and alcohol was scaring away the other tenets, that I needed to change my tune or change my view of the bay below.
What I really needed was a job. A paying job, one that made damn sure that my rent was turned in on time for the first time in months. After the debacle that was the O'Leary case, though, not much came through my door. Sure, I still got some customers, worried wives wondering if their hubbies were still faithful, men certain (certain!) that their brides were going around their backs...
But it wasn't enough. They paid, they all paid, but rent was coming due shortly and if I didn't make it in time then I'd be living under I-95 this time next month.
That was when she walked in the door. With legs that went all the way into Howard County, blue eyes that sparkled like they were knives, a dash of crimson on her lips, a head full of golden locks but a heart encased in black ice, and a hint of parfum de veuve noire, she strolled across that threshold like she owned the place. I could tell she'd be my demise, but what the hell, as long as she paid I'd do a dance into oncoming expressway traffic just for her.
"I need someone who can be...discreet, about this," she purred, like silk rubbing against the bony steel of a gun...
