Detective Paco’s on the job investigating Fast and Furious. He and his intrepid band of investigators went to Arizona to get the scoop. Here’s a small sample;
That extra whiskey sour the night before had stopped my ears against the alarm clock the next morning, so I was half an hour late getting to the office. Not that it mattered all that much; private eyes punch bad guys, not timecards. But I like to set a good example for the troops.
Too late for that, it seemed. As I pushed through the door into the waiting room of my suite, I saw the troops cutting up pretty loud. Sheila was standing behind her desk, doubled over with laughter. She was wearing a low-cut summer number, and a good thing it was, too, since I think it was only the mesmerizing effect of the little ripples pulsing across the bronzed flesh of her ample breasts as she laughed that kept Wronwright from stamping on the ground and raving like Donald Duck having a temper tantrum. Instead, he simply stood there, furiously wiping his glasses. I figured I’d give him a minute to pull himself together before asking him to explain why his face had gone completely black. I seated myself on a corner of Sheila’s desk, plopped my hat down on the tower of unpaid bills in her in-box, and leisurely fished a coffin nail out of the pack, lighting it with my trusty Zippo.
“Well, well,” I said. “If it isn’t that great folk music legend, Delta Wron. Where’s your banjo?”
Please do take the time to read the rest. A nice momentary distraction from the daily grind.