Pulp Noir

It wasn't the cops or beatnik junkies who dropped the dime and set me on the run. No, it was that dish of a dame from the Palace Cafe who betrayed me. She’d sized me up for the reckless gambler I was and played me like a deck of marked cards. Her perfumed neck wreaked of double-cross when she leaned in to light my cigarette with dark, slippery fingers and a hungry smile. And yet, the madness of love. The phone was ringing like a brassy burglar alarm, but nothing good waited at the other end of that line. My hands shook; I badly needed a drink. The weight of the pistol in my pocket felt reassuring and inevitable.