She flinched like she’d been slapped across the face with an iron glove.
“What was that?” She said, her eyes tearing up like a kid in a cobra cage.
“My neighbour must have opened a can of eggs.”
She nodded, her look boring through my face like some kind of Neptunian Drill Worm, and said, “So?”
“Will you do it?”
“Kill your husband?” I asked, “Last time I checked that was tip of the top of the list of things that are illegal.”
She pulled a cigar from her purse. A Cohiba the size of a donkey’s dink. She fired it up like she was stoking the forge in a steel mill, filling my office with more smoke than a Mississippi picnic.
“I don’t [puff] want [puff] you [puff] to kill him,” she said, “I just want him distracted [puff] [puff] [puff].”
“Lady, I don’t jake your snake here, so if you could just clear the air and stick to the details.”
“My husband is a very rich and powerful man with many enemies. He’s also very dangerous. He’s as ruthless as he is tanned.”
“Just how tanned is he?” I wondered aloud.
“He’s like Texas chaps on a Wyoming queer.”
I nodded. That’s pretty damned tanned. Which meant that this gig was pretty damn dangerous. I guess she could stink my whiff–
“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars,” she said, sucking down the last of her Cuban smoke machine.
Five. Thousand. Dollars.
That’s a lot of cans of eggs.