*in a film noir voice*
I didn't know what Brigman meant when he said "Cleanup on Aisle 3" - always enigmatic, an attention hound - though my gut told me he wasn't the killer. My gut told be whoever sent Artimus Farnswell to the great beyond was still out there, watching me, chuckling to himself as I spun in circles for a clue - any clue that could serve as my lighthouse through this case, thick as pea soup fog.
The moon shone like the burning end of one of my Pall Malls as the Yummy's automatic doors split - me Moses, them the dead sea. I cocked Margaret in my inside coat pocket - her lead sandwiches as close as I'd ever come to working in the service industry. I thought Margaret my one true sole mate... that is... until I saw here.
She stood in the pasta aisle, analyzing the contents of a Prego bottle. The only facial feature unhidden by a patterned black veil were her violet lips. Look at those smackers. To kiss... to kiss those lips... to, in the heat of a moment, put my lips upon hers under a pale blue night with the Pacific as our only soundtrack. To watch those lips move forever... become old... to watch them sing. She had more curves than a Hot Wheels racetrack - and a few curves that I'm sure she invented herself. She saw me approach, her the coy spider, me the romantic fly. I feigned interest in a pack of apple chips.
"Dangerous out," I said.
"Not if you're sharp," she replied with a twinkle in her chocolate eyes.
"Oh, I'm sharp," I countered. "And I cut like a dagger."
"You're not the only one cutting with a dagger."
So she knew about Farnswell's death. More bouillon in this mysterious soup.
"L.A," I said as I regarded the world outside. "This town's twisted it gives me vertigo." I passed her my card. "EZ PZ, private eye."
"Ooo," she purred. "Mama like."
"And you are?"
"Yes, I am."
Possibly a Buddhist, I thought.
"Your name, sweetheart?" I persisted.
"Gretta Boyles. Perhaps you've heard of me."
I had heard of her. She was photographed arm in arm with every A-lister in this joke-of-a-town at one time of another. I wondered if a camera was on me right then...
"You know about Farnswell's death?"
"Like I know the loneliness of the womb."
"Where were you last Thursday?"
"Wednesday."
"Wednesday the club?"
She sarcastically applauded. I stood there, a deer in this beauty's headlights. I had been booted from the force because, on more than one occasion, my heart clouded my head. But there was something about this woman - a dark angel in a sprawling hell. A woman with secrets that matched mine. I needed to have her.
"You like those apple chips?" She asked.
"More than I like your alibi," I said. Then paid for my apple chips and slid out into the temperate night, knowing that wouldn't the last time me and Gretta Boyles crossed paths.
Good chips. Nice cashier. Really clean! read more