They skulked into my office like Dodger fans the day Bobby Thomson hit the shot heard ’round the world. Guy and his frail, both pulling faces. The mug must have lifted weights in his sleep. The dame had killer legs and a top that couldn’t contain her enthusiasm.
Neither could I.
“You Doyle?” muscles said, his voice tight as a dog collar.
I checked the black letters on the door. “Can Judy Garland sing?”
Popeye mouthed a cigarette. Tough baby.
“Take a load off,” I said, and we did the introductions. Dutch Malone worked the Navy Yard. Helga Nordmann worked on me. Her blue eyes could cut glass. Two kids squatting in a cold-water walkup in Bay Ridge. Out of money and out of luck.
Helga cracked her gum. “We got trouble.”
“So does Korea,” I said.
“Somebody’s trying to kill me.”
I smiled. “Now that’s a crime.”
You can see this entry in the New York Times pulp fiction contest at this link.
Jeff Widmer 