More notes for a novel in 1940s noir

by John MacBeath Watkins

"Get your mitts off me," I said.

"Those are your mitts," the bouncer answered. "See, they're connected with a string that goes through your sleeves."

It was a nice, quiet joint. There hadn't been a knifing in a month, and they'd hired librarians to shush the

The job sounded easy. Too easy. But what if those kindergarteners were tougher than I thought?

"Babe, I could go for a girl like you," I said, drinking her in with my eyes.

She had long legs, slender hips, lots of blond hair. Some men might not have liked the size of her Adam's apple, but I like that in my women.

The door to her bedroom was ajar.

"Let me go first," I said, pulling my snub-nosed .38 out of the shoulder holster. I slammed the door open and moved in fast, scanning the room with my eyes and my gun. Most of the bedding was on the floor, every drawer was pulled out and there was clothing strewn everywhere.

"Notice anything?" I asked her.

"It's just like I left it this morning," she said. "Don't mind the mess, it's always like this."

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