A woman came in, stood before me, in that indeterminate age group of forty-fifty. Well groomed, long black coiffed hair, and a face that was striking more than pretty. Her clothes quietly whispered,
“Money and, yeah, class.”
I don’t know if God donates class but I was pretty sure that the devil handed out style. Whatever she was selling, I didn’t want it. I raised my glass, conveying,
“Take it elsewhere, lady.”
She sat. I mean, f**k it, just sat. Said,
“You are Jack Taylor.”
How many times I’d begun a case with just those words and never, f**k never, did it end well. I looked her right in the face, measured,
“I don’t care whether your husband/dog is missing or whatever, your son/daughter/. . . you hear me? I can’t help you.”
She was unfazed, just leveled those lovely sad eyes on me
