I knew she was no good the moment she walked in my office. Only one type of guy ends up scraping the bottom of the barrel where I reside, someone who has absolutely no one else to help them out. This gal could get fifty guys to die for her just by walking into the nearest bar, winking and offering casual sex. She looked like an angel, if angels could give you a look that suggested that they didn’t mind at all those thoughts you’re thinking, and maybe if you play your cards right... I don’t know, things might be more laid back up there these days. They certainly are down here.
I offered her a drink and she wasn’t about to say no. When I got back from the shop with the WKD Iron Brew she’d made herself comfortable, very comfortable judging by her expression, on my couch.
“Listen,” she rasped in a voice like Bette Davis narrating a trailer for the latest Terminator flick, “I need your help” She gave me some sob story about her husband going out to buy a packet of cigarettes and not coming back. It struck a bum note, any guy who went home to those gams each night would have to be dragged away by some kind of giant robot gorilla, and when I saw the weasely face in the picture that she slid across to me I knew I was being spun what we in the Shamus business call a Daily Mail exclusive. However, when she introduced me to her friends Mr Darwin and Ms Fry all doubts evaporated.
The case itself wasn’t too taxing. I recognised the poor slob straight away as the teacher at a Salsa class my old lady was always trying to drag me to at the community centre. I spent a decent interval running up expenses like an MP in a Kensington antique store then tossed hot-lips a nod in the right direction.
I must confess to a slight pang of guilt when I saw his face staring out at me from the front page Harpenden Enquirer next Wednesday, however I took consolation from the bulging wallet in my jacket. I tell you one thing though brother:
Dames, they ain’t nothing but trouble.