You: The tall redhead with legs up to your earrings and a wiggle
like a python no one told couldn't walk upright.
Me: Sitting behind my desk, nursing a hangover, just a broken-down
ex-con with no business in this business. I've been looking for you ever since that day you came into my office and put that envelope on my desk. I've got a lot to tell you, mainly that the whole Greek angle sits about as well as a frog on a tissue paper lily-pad. I've got a knot a my head the size of a gorilla's fist from when those boys your old flame sent after me gave my a little mahogany shampoo. I've got a stiff in the trunk and all Hell knows what he's got to do with all this. Are they planting the evidence on me, hoping one more screw-up in a lifetime of screw-ups will finally send me up for good? All I can say is that dead men are heavier than broken hearts, and with all the bodies from this case I'm feeling about two tons shy of a battleship. Or was this the angle all along? Shake your cans all sweet-potatoes until I'm all turned around, can't see the set-up, can't see that it was your hand that came out of the car window that night holding the revolver?