I acquired it from a foreman at Dodge Main who’d bought it for a starter home in 1940 and moved out thirty years later into his daughter’s house after she caught him trying to replace a spent fuse with a shotgun shell. After twenty-five years I don’t guess it’s a starter for me either. It’s a place to smoke a cigarette without alerting Detroit Vice, and maybe the only place in the solar system where a man can tell a visitor to go screw himself and make it stick. It needs a new roof, a coat of paint, and while we’re at it a cellar stocked with vintage Amontillado, excellent before dinner and when entombing enemies. I’d settle for the paint. The open tail I’d been touring with most of the day had evaporated sometime while I was parked in the warehouse district, replaced by a pale blue Bonneville with tinted windows; it had taken forty-five minutes of aimless driving to pick the car out of rush-hour traffic. After that I’d torn the wrapper off some tricks I’d learned in my varied and ultimately pointless career, but this one didn’t shake.
What do You think about Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 16 - Poison Blonde?
