Notes for a novel in 1940s noir

by John MacBeath Watkins

She had a mind made for sin and a body best suited to philosophy.

His thoughts were deep, dark, and damp, and so was she.

I poured two fingers of whiskey on the rocks. What a waste. I began to wish I'd brought a glass.

The gun in the blond's hand carried a bullet with my name on it. I should have signed one of her  boobs instead.

As I sat waiting for the stop sign to change, it began to dawn on me that I'd been drugged.

"And tell your gorilla  to keep his hands out of his pockets," I told him.

"He doesn't have pockets, he's a gorilla," the zookeeper replied.

"I've got a code," I told her, "You wouldn't understand."

"Actually," she replied laconically, "strictly speaking, pig Latin isn't a code."

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