I awoke to the dull roar of the wind outside my window and the
abrupt sound of my phone by my ear. This happens all the time, I’m
a detective. The name’s Bullet. Tracer Bullet.
I felt around for my Lucky’s, but instead found my glass of
bourbon and dropped a couple slugs down my throat before answering,
“Detective.” I spoke as a matter of fact, not as a question.
The soothing tones of the dame I had come to know so well answered
my voice. “It’s happened again,” she said as I lit and took a drag
off the cig. “Can you meet me at the regular spot?” We had always
met here in the past, a shady area with trees surrounding us where
we could not be listened in upon.
I arrived early with a colt at my hip and an old slug in my arm.
The dame approached. She wore her usual black-as-night with her
lips red as fire. In her arms was the package she had for me to
bury. “You sure this won’t be found,” she asked in a whisper. “Only
if people aren’t looking for it,” was my reply.
You can find parking at N47 18.373 W122 24.548.
Congrats to Criminal for being FTF!