Maybe I should introduce myself. The name's Mallory, Duncan Mallory. I used to be a cop, once upon a time, but someone accused me of picking up envelopes from Jimmy "Fat Man" Ricotti, and my otherwise unbrilliant career came crashing to a halt. Never mind the fact that my accuser had just been arrested, by me, for kicking the shit outta one of his whores. Never mind the fact that I was about three days away from nailing the Fat Man's ass to the wall on about four counts of conspiracy to commit murder. And it didn't help matters any that I had just bought a brand-new '39 Pontiac, either. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was free to seek employment elsewhere, and to consider myself lucky that they had no evidence with which to prosecute. So I did what came naturally, and went private.

By August of '42, I had been a private cop for over three years, and needless to say, I hadn't gotten rich in the meantime. I managed to hang on to the Pontiac, (just barely), and keep my office, and my secretary. I suppose that I could've gotten along without her, but she worked cheap, and besides, she was a great lay. Her husband was on a destroyer somewhere in the north Atlantic, and she was too much woman to go without for the duration. At first, I felt bad about fucking a married woman, particularly a serviceman's wife, but she said that he was probably dipping it into anything that said Yes or Maybe. She wasn't going to worry about it, and I shouldn't either. In the end, I figured somebody was going to get that great ass, so it might as well be me.

My caseload, never staggering, was particularly light at the time. Two divorce cases constituted my entire list of clients at that moment. In the first case, a woman had hired me to find out if her husband was cheating on her. I'd been following the guy for a week, and finally managed to get pictures of him fucking around on his wife. Only thing was, it wasn't another woman.

My client had just about puked when she saw the pictures of her husband blowing some young stud's cock. I didn't bother to show her the ones of him taking it up the ass. She told me to meet with him, and explain to him that if he didn't give her an uncontested divorce, the house, the car, and $25,000 a year, then she'd sue him, and use the pictures as evidence. I knew the husband was a wealthy businessman, a real pillar of the community-type, and figured that he would do just about anything to keep this quiet. So I had an appointment to meet with him at four p.m. It was now just a quarter-past twelve, so I was just killing time, staring out my window. Gwen had left for her lunch fifteen minutes ago, which was a shame. Usually, when things were this slow, it didn't take much to talk her into a little desktop date. For about the 100th time since I hired her, I decided that she really was worth the money I paid her.

I heard knocking on my outer office door. I got up to answer it, figuring that Gwen had locked it when she left. I was almost to the door when it opened. Standing on the other side was easily the most beautiful woman to knock on my door in a long time, all due respects to Gwen. At least 6 feet in her five-inch stiletto heels, I figured she probably run 5'7"- 5'8" barefoot. Her stockings were silk, and they encased a breathtaking pair of legs that just kept going upwards. She wore a rather short black skirt, with an emerald green jacket, black gloves, and a small, black pillbox hat. The overall effect was not so much to cover her body, as to accentuate the delicious curves that were so apparent. Her golden-blond hair was swept back from her face, and silken curls cascaded down her back, halfway to a perfectly shaped ass. Her breasts were large, but not excessively so, and her hips were perfectly flared. But what was easily her most captivating feature were her eyes. They were a clear green color, and looked like they had been carved out of jade. They transformed her; from merely beautiful, to absolutely stunning.

She smiled when she saw me, and extended her hand, "Hello. Are you Mr. Mallory?" Just a trace of an accent in her voice.

"Fortunately for me, yes. How can I help you?"

"I was told by a former client of yours that you might be able to help me with, ah...a certain problem that I have."

"Well, I certainly would be happy to try. Would you care to step into my private office?"

When she was seated across from me, I grabbed my pad and pencil, and asked her to begin.

"First of all, Mr. Mallory, I need to know that you will never, never, breathe a word of this to anyone. Will you promise me that?"

"Miss, I promise you that anything you say to me will be held in the strictest confidence."

She hesitated for just a second, then went on. "Very well. My name is Gabrielle Montaigne. I moved here from Montreal several years ago. I was very young at the time, and soon after I came here, I met a man, a photographer named Eric Hennessey, and fell in love. He was unable to marry me, but I didn't care. I began living with him. I was with him for three years, with him always promising that, as soon as he was able, he would marry me. He claimed that his wife was Catholic, and refused to give him a divorce. Like an idiot, I believed him, and kept giving myself to him. Finally, a year ago, I found out that he was already divorced, and had been for the past four years. He had been using me as his whore all that time."

"Well, Miss Montaigne, while it sounds like your friend is a real bastard, unfortunately that's not against the law."

"Is blackmail?"

"Is he blackmailing you?"

"One of Eric's passions is nude photography. He had me pose for many pictures while we were together. At first, they were just nudes of me. But, then, he asked me to pose with other men, even other women. He demanded that I actually have sex with them, 'in the interests of realism', he said. And, because I loved him, and wanted desperately to please him, I did it."

"What does he want now?"

She was quiet for a long minute. "My name is no longer Montaigne. I recently married Thomas Donovan, Jr. Do you recognize the name?"

I did. "They say that your father-in-law's going to be the next governor. He also owns half a dozen banks throughout the state. I know that his son's on the Board of Directors of a good dozen of his daddy's companies. How did you and Junior meet?"

"His sister is one of my best friends."

"And now he's threatening to send him the pictures. What does he want from you?"

"$50,000 dollars."

"Do you have that kind of money?"

"Not even close, I'm afraid. I did work as a fashion model. Now, I'm just Thomas' wife. I have no money of my own."

"What about asking your husband for the money? He's supposed to be worth millions."

"Mon Dieu, why didn't I think of that?! I'll just go up to him and say, 'excuse me, darling, but I need $50,000 for shopping.' I'm trying to keep him from finding out, Mr. Mallory!"

"Miss Montaigne...excuse me, Mrs. Donovan, even if you had the money, that might not be possible. More than likely, this guy has made several sets of photos. You pay him, he gives you one set, maybe even gives you the negatives. Then, a few months down the line, comes another letter, another phone call, and it all starts over again. Until you can't, or won't pay anymore. In which case, he promptly sends the pictures to your husband. You'd be better off to come clean with him. If he loves you, then he'll forgive you."

In reply, she just opened her handbag, and took out an envelope. She handed it to me. I opened it and looked inside. All it contained was a 4"x 4" photograph, slightly grainy, but plenty clear enough to recognize the woman sitting across from me. She was completely naked, lying face-up on a rather well endowed man, whose dick was partially buried inside her beautiful box. She was definitely as gorgeous naked as I had imagined that she was, and I found myself wishing that I was the lucky bastard in the picture. She reached over to take the picture back, and blushed a deep crimson when my eyes met hers. "Could you forgive that, Mr. Mallory?"

I sighed deeply, "It won't be easy to get the pictures back, Mrs. Donovan. To be honest, I don't think that it can be done. And I don't think that you're able to afford for me to try. I normally charge $500 for something this difficult."

She didn't hesitate a second. "Will you accept something other than cash, Mr. Mallory?"

"Generally speaking, no. But what do you have in mind?"

"Me."

My mind immediately began exploring the possibilities, picturing her riding my cock, or better yet, her lips sliding up and down it. But I forced my face to remain impassive as I looked her up and down, as though appraising her worth. "Do you seriously think that you're worth that much? After all, I could have the best prostitute in the city, all night long, for twenty bucks. Besides, I very seldom have to pay for it."

"You have no idea how important this is to me. I promise you will not be disappointed." She looked over at the clock on my wall. "It's almost 12:30 now. I promised Eric that I would meet him at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. If you will go with me, then I will be yours for the next twenty-four hours. Whatever you desire, I will do. But you must help me."

"What about Junior?"

"He's in Sacramento on business. He'll be gone until Friday."

I thought it over for perhaps a second. "How did you get here today? Did you drive?"

"I took a cab. I didn't want my husband to find out where I had gone."

I wrote Gwen a quick note, letting her know that I was called away suddenly on business, and wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. I asked her to reschedule my appointment with the good fairy, and then she could take the rest of the day off. I grabbed my hat and coat. "Let's go."

She stood up and followed me without a word. When I paused to lock the door, she asked, "Where are we going?"

"Where do you think? My place. I intend to find out just how good a bargain I've struck."

We were silent for the duration of the short drive to my apartment. As I opened the door and let her in, she brushed up against me, sending waves of anticipation through me. Her perfume was exotic, and I was sure that I had never smelled it before her. She laid her hat, gloves and hand bag on the dining room table, then went over to the liquor cabinet. "Can I fix you something to drink?"

"Scotch and soda, if you please."

She started looking for the ingredients. "Do you have what I need to make a martini?"

"Sorry, I'm out of vermouth. I do have gin, though."

"I think I'll join you in a scotch and soda."

She poured two glasses of scotch, a double, neat, for me, and a scotch and soda for her. She came over to me, and handed me the drink. She had kicked off her shoes, and started taking off her jacket. She sat down on my sofa, casually unbuttoning her blouse. I took off my own jacket and tie, throwing them casually in an armchair, and laid my Colt auto on the liquor cabinet. I walked over to the sofa, sat down beside her, and raised my glass in a toast, "To unpaid debts." She looked at me oddly for a second, then clinked her glass against mine. I began to stroke her long, sensuous hair, as she leaned against me. I took the opportunity to take in the view she had presented me with. She wore no brassiere, and only a silk chemise was between her blouse and her pale, creamy skin. Her tits, though large, were perfectly shaped, and looked as firm as cantaloupes. Again, I raised my glass to her, and said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For having the most incredible body it has ever been my pleasure to view."

She sipped her drink, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Trying to seduce me. It's not necessary, you know. I meant what I said. Anything you desire."

"I know. Right now, I desire this."

She sat her drink down and turned to face me, and started taking the pins out of her hair. When they were all out, she shook it out, and let it fall naturally over her shoulders. I leaned forward to kiss her, and her tongue flicked playfully over mine. Her fingers began unbuttoning my fly, freeing my rapidly growing erection. With a touch as light as a feather, she ran her fingertips up my stiff dick, teasing the head with a touch so soft, so delicate, that I wasn't sure whether it was real or imagined. I massaged her tits, and felt her nipples harden through the silk of her chemise. I leaned down, and sucked her erect nipples through the fabric that covered them. She moaned softly and gently pushed me away.

She stood in front of me and slowly began to remove her clothing, first shedding her blouse; then, dropping her skirt to the floor, she stepped out of it and kicked it aside. The chemise followed, and she stood before me, naked except for her garter belt and stockings. I told her to keep them on, while getting undressed myself. Within seconds, I was naked, and I pulled her towards me. She leaned over me, and I began kissing the soft mound of hair at the juncture of her lovely thighs. She opened her thighs, straddling my head as my rod slid into her mouth. My tongue flicked back and forth over her clit, as she ground her pelvis into my face. She took my cock in all the way, as I thrust upwards, trying to get even deeper. I knew that I wasn't going to last much longer, and I wanted to try to bring her off at the same time. I spread her ass cheeks and began licking her tight, little bunghole. She shivered and began sucking even harder. I forced my tongue past her sphincter, and she started cumming, just as I shot my load down her throat. She collapsed on top of me, my cum dripping out of her mouth. I stood up, with her in my arms, and carried her into the bedroom.

I lay down beside her, and started sucking hungrily at her magnificent breasts. She wrapped her arms around my head, and pulled me close to her. Quickly, I mounted her, and my dick slid easily into her hot, wet, cunt. She was so tight, so slick, that I thought I'd cum as soon as I was inside her. She rose up to meet my thrusts, and it wasn't long before I felt my second orgasm rip through me. I fell beside her, totally spent, by what was easily the best sex I had had in a long time.

A short time later, as we lay together, my arm around her, her head resting on my shoulder, I decided to find out a little more about this incredible girl. "You mind if I call you Gabrielle?"

She laughed, "A while ago, you were cumming in my mouth, and now, you're asking permission to use my first name? You are definitely unique, Duncan."

"Always a gentleman. Can I tell you that you are the best I've had in a long, long time?"

"Merci. You, too, are very skilled. I have not found many American men who enjoy using anything other than their dicks on a woman. That was very...enjoyable."

"My pleasure. Actually, my secretary, Gwen, is the one who taught me to enjoy that. Among other things."

"Oh? What kinds of things?"

"Don't worry, you'll find out. Have you been with many American men?"

She was silent for a minute, and when she answered, her voice had a bitter edge to it, "Well, as I said earlier, Eric did make a whore out of me. Yes, you could say that I have been with a few."

"I'm sorry. I suppose that I'm no better than he is, now."

She raised her head to look me in the eyes. "Bullshit. I propositioned you, remember? He made me do what I am doing, not you. At least, I'm enjoying this immensely."

"I'm glad to hear it. If you don't mind, can I ask how old you are?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really. I'm just curious, that's all."

"Very well, I'll be twenty in October. How old are you?"

"I turned thirty-eight in June. God, now I feel like a depraved old man, fucking a girl half my age."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Hell, yes!"

"Then don't worry about it. I haven't been a virgin since I was 14, and he was older than you are now."

"Do you love this Donovan guy, Gabrielle?"

She was quiet for a moment, then sighed, "I don't know. I suppose. He's comfortable, secure. And he's not too bad in bed. But he's certainly not as good as you, Duncan."

"Does he know you've been with other men?"

She just shrugged, "He knew that I was not a virgin when he fell in love with me. He has no idea how many men, and women, I've been with. That's what this is all about."

"How did this asshole get you to do what you did, Gabrielle? Did you ever tell him no?"

"Only once. He convinced me that it was a mistake."

"How?"

"He beat me, then had four of his friends rape me, while he took pictures. After that, I didn't challenge him again."

"How could you stay with a fucking pig like that? You should've left the first time he wanted to play his sick little games with you."

"Duncan, you have to remember that I was only fifteen when I met him, and I loved him. He got me started as a model. I thought that he loved me. I couldn't leave him. At least, not until much later."

"When you found out that he wasn't still married."

She nodded. "That's when I realized that he would never marry me, that I was just somebody to use, somebody to fuck."

"Well, I'm glad that you got away from him, and I want you to know that I'm going to do my best to get those pictures back for you. I promise you that."

"Then you think I'm worth the price?"

"I don't know, yet. I think I need another demonstration."

"Oh, really?" she asked coyly, her hand sliding downward to grasp my hardening cock, "let me see if I can do anything to convince you."

She began licking my chest, working her way downward. I guided her head to my erect shaft, and her mouth engulfed me, her lips pressing into the hair at the base of my penis. I started thrusting, fucking her soft mouth like a second pussy. Her delicate fingers teased my balls, lightly stroking and massaging them, as though she were trying to milk the cum out of them.

Just as I was on the edge of orgasm, she pulled her mouth off of my cock. I tried to pull her back, but she obviously had other plans. "I want you to fuck me, Duncan. Fuck me from behind."

She got on her hands and knees on the bed, and I got behind her, easing a finger into her tight asshole. She moaned softly, and thrust herself back. "Oh, yes, Duncan, put your dick in my ass! Fuck my ass!"

I needed no further encouragement, and soon I was riding my way to the best orgasm I had ever had. It wasn't the first time I had done this, but it had never been with anyone so eager. I started thrusting into her, harder and harder, my hands on her hips, pulling her back to meet each thrust, faster and faster. Much too soon, I felt the spasms start, as I shot my load into her tight rectum. I collapsed on the bed beside her, too drained even for words. I pulled her close to me, and I drifted off to sleep, stunned by the intensity of our lovemaking.

It was dark outside when I woke up, and I lay there for a while, getting my bearings. I had half expected Gabrielle to be gone, along with a generous portion of my cash-on-hand, which probably amounted to bus fare. But I could feel her warm body pressed against me, her breath hot on the skin of my back. Damn, I told myself, she must really want those pictures back. I mean, Boris Karloff I'm not, but I'm not so special that a woman, particularly one that looks as good as Gabrielle Montaigne, would risk losing a millionaire husband to take a toss with me.

I rolled over onto my back, and lit up a Pall Mall as I watched her sleeping. I thought about the story she had told me earlier; something sounded strange about it, but nothing I could peg down. What was left of my scotch was sitting on the nightstand; I drained it in one swallow. I looked at my watch as I finished the cigarette. 2:25 in the morning. I had been asleep for almost 12 hours? Oh well, time for the next installment on her payment plan.

I ran my fingers up her thigh, over her hip, and up to her breast, brushing the tips against the nipple. She moaned softly, pressing closer to me. My hand worked its way downward, coming to rest in the soft patch of hair at the union of her thighs. Another moan escaped her lips, as I slid a finger deep into her pussy. Her eyes slowly opened, and a smile crossed her lips as she began stroking my cock. "My God, Duncan, you are insatiable. What must I do to satisfy this friend of yours?"

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

She rolled over on top of me, her silky hair draping over me as she kissed me. My dick, with a mind of it's own, slid easily into her dripping cunt. There was no urgency this time; instead, she rocked back and forth slowly, lazily, drawing every sensation out like an erotic torturer. I had never known anyone so purely sexual as this girl was, so able to both give and receive pleasure. Most women put about as much effort into sex as they do into sewing up a shirt. Why do you think I track down so many cheating husbands?

But Gabrielle was different. Totally different. She didn't merely enjoy sex, she allowed herself to be consumed by it. She simply sat back and let it overwhelm her. She was incredible.

And, at that moment, what she was doing was overwhelming me. She had gradually quickened her strokes, only to slow them again. Over and over again, she repeated this process, alternatively pounding the hell out of my dick, then slowing down until I could barely feel her slick snatch moving up and down, back and forth. I squeezed her gorgeous breasts together until her erect nipples were almost touching, then slid my tongue across the rubbery tips. It seemed as though an electric current was passing through her body, as the muscles gripping my hard shaft began to spasm. She collapsed onto me, completely exhausted, the sweat dripping from her body, mingling with mine, the juices from her pussy flowing down my cock as I continued to thrust into her. She moaned softly, moving her hips to meet my thrusts, and raised her head to look me in the eyes. "Would you like to cum on my breasts?"

In response, I pulled out of her tight cunt, rolling her off of me, and onto her back. Straddling her waist, I began to stroke my slick cock between her lovely mounds. She pressed her breasts together, forming a tight tunnel for my dick. Within seconds, I felt my own orgasm begin, and I pulled back, shooting what little cum I had left onto her right tit. As I faded into unconsciousness, the last image I saw was Gabrielle licking my cum from her nipple.

The August heat already had my apartment stifling when I woke up, and when I looked at my watch, I was surprised to see that it was almost 11:30. I lay there for several minutes, watching her sleep, her naked body glistening with sweat, her extraordinary tits rising and falling with her gentle breathing. Despite the exertions of the night before, I found myself with a rapidly growing erection. As if on cue, her eyes fluttered open and she caught me eyeing her with obvious hunger.

She groaned softly, "My God, Duncan! Is it always this hot in here?"

"Sorry, doll. Sixty-five bucks a month doesn't pay for much in the way of luxury. Not exactly what you're used to, is it?"

"I'm sorry, Duncan, I didn't mean to make it sound that way. Please don't be angry."

She looked as though she expected me to backhand her for complaining about the heat. Something else I owed that son-of-a-bitch Hennessey for. "Hey, honey, calm down. God, I'm not going to get angry with you because you said it's hot. Shit, I know that it's a fucking oven in here. No need to apologize for saying so."

She leaned over and kissed me, gently at first, then with growing urgency. Her hand closed around my erect penis, squeezing the first drops of precome from it. Slowly, deliberately, she licked the fluid from her fingers, then began licking it off the head of my cock. I put my hand on the back of her head and began thrusting into her mouth, desperately wanting to cum inside it. She swallowed every inch of my cock, as her fingers played with my balls. Everything, the heat, the faint headache, the dull ache of sore muscles, the persistent nagging feeling that something didn't quite ring true, all of it disappeared from my mind with the sight of her blonde head pistoning up and down on my hard dick. I felt the tension building in my balls, and knew that I was about to fill her mouth with cum. She knew it too, and began to stroke the base of my cock, jerking me off into her waiting mouth.

As my trembling began to subside, she got up, and headed into the bathroom. A few minutes later, I heard the shower start. I rolled over and lit up a cigarette. It always helps me think, gets me into the proper frame of mind to sort things out. I knew that she wasn't telling me the whole truth, and I knew that, in my line of work, that could be dangerous. I hated to just come right out and accuse her of lying but I needed a few more answers before I went head-to-head with Hennessey. When I finished the smoke, I got up, heading into the bathroom to help Gabrielle with her shower.

Later, as we were in my car heading towards the photographer's house, the rumbling in my gut was louder than the Pontiac's straight-8 and it wasn't because I was hungry. "Gabrielle, what aren't you telling me about this?"

"Nothing, Duncan. I promise you. I've told you everything I know."

"You're certain of that?"

"Duncan, I wouldn't lie to you! I need your help too much."

We didn't have much more to say to one another until we reached the photographer's. Being a slimeball photographer must pay a hell of a lot, judging by the house we were parked in front of. At least, it paid a helluva lot more than being a private cop. I went around to open the passenger door for Gabrielle.

"Duncan, can I please wait out here? I don't think that I can face him."

"You sure?"

When she nodded, I closed her door, patting my pocket to make sure that I didn't leave the key in the ignition. I walked up to the door and started to knock, when I noticed that it was ajar. I felt like I was in a Dick Tracy serial but I had to go in. I drew my Colt, easing the door open.

The day before, the price of the carpet that covered the living room floor would have probably paid my rent for a year. Now, though, the three-foot-wide bloodstain likely devalued it quite a bit. The silk dressing gown the stiff was wearing was probably worth a bundle, too. Only not with those four neat little holes in the back of it. I rolled him face up, and, instead of four neat little holes in front, there was a single, big, ragged one where his heart and lungs used to be. Only one round does that kind of damage; .45 cal. softnose slugs. That why I carry them. I was starting to feel like a mouse nibbling on a piece of cheese, and wondering why it was on a big wooden plate, with all kinds of springs and wires attached. It was time for me to get the hell out of there.

As I started to leave, I noticed the stiff's face; it was familiar somehow. Then it came to me, it was the guy in the picture that Gabrielle had shown me, the one with his cock buried in her cunt. He was stiffer than he was then, only now there was no smile on his face.

I had almost made it to my car when the black-and-white pulled up behind it. Both cops got out, service revolvers drawn and pointed straight at me. While one cop went into the house to find the man I'm supposed to have killed, the other one checked my piece. "When's the last time you fired this pistol, Mallory?"

"Why don't you tell me, Scarpetta. You guys seem to be a step ahead of me, anyway."

He pulled the clip. "You got four rounds missin', smartass. Mind tellin' me where they are?"

I just shrugged; they weren't the only thing missing. Gabrielle was nowhere to be seen. Scarpetta's partner returned just in time to hear the last. "I think I found 'em, Tony. He gave 'em to some guy inside. Right in the back."

Within a predictably short time, I found myself in a holding cell at Central Booking, waiting for a detective to let me know just what was going on. It took a while but finally Jerry O'Brien stuck his thick mick face in the door. He unlocked the cell, and took me into one of the interrogation rooms. I had barely sat down before he started. "Why'd ya kill him, Mallory?"

"I didn't kill anybody, O'Brien. Even you should be able to figure out that I was framed."

"C'mon, Mallory, I thought you'd be a little more original than that. That one goes all the way back to Cain and Abel. You're fond of taking dirty pictures. What were you doing, trying to blackmail him? He didn't want to go along with it, so you decided to get some target practice?"

"Shit, Jerry, you think I'm stupid enough to shoot some asshole, then stick around admiring my handiwork until the cops stroll in? Give me credit for some sense, please!"

"What do you call these, Mr. Hot-Shot private dick?" He said, laying a large envelope in front of me. Inside were pictures, remarkably similar to the one that Gabrielle had shown me about a lifetime or so ago. It was Hennessey in every picture, always nude, with a variety of women. There were pictures of him with one woman, two women, all the way up to him, another guy, and five women. The only thing I didn't see in the pictures was Gabrielle. I looked at the backs of the photos. There was a date, written in ink, with my initials, on each one. I had been fucked like a pro, in more ways than one. I noticed the dates; if they were right, then there were at least thirty photos, in a three-week span. This guy had a real monkey on his back. I had heard of guys that were addicted to sex and he must've had it bad.

"I didn't take these. I've never even seen them before."

"You'll pardon me if I don't exactly believe you."

"Look, first of all, I had no reason to kill the guy. Besides, he was dead a long time before I got there. Ask the Coroner. You've got nothin'!"

"I got nothin'!? I got a dead bigshot with four holes from a forty-five in him. I got you comin' outta the guy's house, with a warm forty-five, that's been fired four times. I got evidence you were trying to blackmail the stupid cunthound. I got your ass, and I got enough to strap your ass into the electric chair. Time to say goodnight, Gracie."

Something O'Brien said set alarm bells jangling in my head. "What do you mean, 'a dead bigshot'? Just who was this Hennessey, anyway?"

"Hennessey? Don't you keep track of who you kill? The guy's name is Donovan, Thomas Donovan. His Daddy stands a real good chance of bein' the one to sign your death warrant."

Well, it was all pretty downhill from there. You'd be surprised how little evidence can get a conviction, especially when the right kind of power is behind it. That was five years ago now, and, according to my calendar, I've got three days left, barring, as the chaplain is fond of saying, a last-minute reprieve from the Governor. Between you and me, I'm not holding my breath.

As for the grieving widow, I figure she must've drugged my drink, then gave my pistol to whoever popped her husband. Then he brought it back, and between the drug and the sex, I was none the wiser. The last I heard, she was enjoying the sun in Havana, with just her late husband's chauffeur, and her late husband's nine million dollars, for companionship.

The chauffeur, they say, accompanies her everywhere. A good man, they say, named Hennessey. They say he's one hell of an amateur photographer.

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