I was walking down the mean streets of Louisville. Actually, it was Frankfort Avenue, which is more of an artsy-fartsy street, but "walking down the artsy-fartsy streets" doesn't sound very hard-boiled noir, does it? Again:
I was walking down the mean streets of Louisville. Operation Brightside, the Mayor-for-Life's beautification program, obviously let these sidewalks fall through the cracks. Hope his mother's hospitalization insurance was paid up.
A form in the general detritus caught my eye. I froze, then whipped out my camera and snapped a picture. Crime victim, or just some poor unlucky so-and-so, caught up in the deadly irony of life in the big city?
I called 911. The cop who responded knows me--knew I trip over corpses all the time and knew I was always innocent. "Save the city some money," he said. "Get lost, so we don't have to do that tap-dance where I try to beat a confession out of you and you crack wise."
So I ducked out of sight behind the ambulance and showed up at forensics to get an inside lead on what happened to the poor sap.
"Can't tell," the coroner, a gorgeous brunette with silver streaks--initials MA--said. "Might have been thrown from a moving vehicle, might have been a hit and run...might even have been life with a dog or a baby."
We both shuddered.
"At any rate, there's a hole in the top of his head big enough for a pulp thriller's plot. Some of his brains came out on the table."
"Too bad," I said. "Say, how's about breakfast?"
"Sure thing," MA said, snapping off her gloves. "How about flapjacks and maple syrup? Your treat."
Strange woman. A mean street, all by herself.