She had asked me to meet her at Scandia—the kind of joint where rich men take their mistresses and drink expensive hooch until closing time. The gaudy red booths glittered in the dim lights like little circles of hell. I knew my client because she was the only dame drinking alone in her big, vinyl booth. She looked up at me as I strode towards her and said, when I got within ear-shot, “I want you to kill her.”
The Strip was full of molls and gangsters—Hollywood Division’s authority didn’t run passed Crescent Heights. Here we were back in the Wild West. The LA County sheriffs were in so many pockets their department might as well have been a pool table. She was beautiful with dark-brown eyes bigger than Bambi’s mother—but I knew she was trouble.
“Sorry Lady,” I answered as I prepared to turn heel and exit, “I’m no hired gun—you can find yourself someone else to do your dirty work.”
“Wait! Stop!” she said, as she grabbed my sleeve with a hand as pretty as a china doll’s, “I’m sorry. Please sit. Let me buy you a drink.” Her giant topaz and ruby cocktail ring caught the restaurant’s dim lights and glinted like some malevolent beast.
I knew I was going to regret it—but I sat —just as the lick-spittle waiter sidled up to take my order. “Scotch-neat—make it a double.”