“Is this case out of your league or what?” she said, slouching on the stained beige sofa, hands behind her head.
She wore a black leather miniskirt, a pink tube top, and a lazy, brainless stare framed by six coats of eye shadow. She kept her hair across half her face, thought it was coy, I suppose, to leave something to the imagination.
I knew she wasn’t leaving until I figured this one out. It was powerful motivation.
“Max Packer, private eye, stumped by the case of the missing nylon,” she said. “Seriously, what are you good for if this is too much?”
“I play a mean harmonica.”
She rolled her eyes and crossed her nyloned leg over the bare one.
Of all the places to die, it had to be here. I had let her down fast and hard that morning, almost a year ago. “You liked me well enough last night!” she had shouted as I walked to the door.
“Jimmy Beam liked you well enough last night,” I replied and turned the knob. That's when it hit. It couldn't have waited two more seconds. Pain seared my chest and I dropped in darkness.
My spirit was chained to a scorned woman’s studio apartment. My talents were tested with mind benders like finding car keys or ratting out the cat.