It was a warm day in the city. Hot. The sun beat down without mercy. The slats of my blinds provided only slivers of shade. The rest of me was in the hot light.
I was thirsty. Wanted something to drink. Reached down into my desk for the bottle of whiskey that I kept in the drawer. I took a long pull from the bottle.
A bell chimed to let me know someone had just entered my office. It was the bell on the door that led outside. Someone, I knew, was coming.
That someone turned out to be a women. She—and she was a she— had long legs that stretched from her body to the ground, and wore a red dress that covered parts of that body. Some other parts—her shoulders and upper back—weren't covered by the dress, and gleamed with the color of her flesh.
She opened her mouth to speak. "I need a detective. To solve a case," she said in a smooth, husky voice. It was a beautiful voice. Like a fine red wine.
"I'm a detective. I solve cases," I said with my far lower voice. It was the voice of a tired man. And I was tired. But this woman was here.
"I'm here," the woman said, "because I heard you were a detective. I was told that by a friend. A good friend."
"You are here," I said. "And also I am here."