Wednesday, May 18, 2005

crime fiction 17/5

The air was warm down there, & the ocean breezes were soft balmy caresses instead of endless lashing fusillades of stinging salt cold. I took a look at the positions vacant & chose this one. We did not find the Blonde or the Swarthy Man. The only thing they can give you is a cold. I wore my night-prowler's costume; black jeans, dark windbreaker over a sweater, black cap pulling my hair flat against my head, charcoal on my cheeks to keep the moonlight from reflecting off my skin.

"Oh," said the secretary, "she'll be tickled pink." The thought brought tears to her eyes now, as the pain had then.

No thought of escape had as yet crossed Monsieur Monde's mind. He drank the foam out of the Jax bottle & looked at me with one eye squinted shut against the light. "Must be a good friend, to make you coffee at five-thirty in the morning."

Diaz said, "You know him?"

Yellow Hand nodded. I made up a story.

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