The sun peeked through the clouds like a curious child.
From twenty feet away she was pretty; up close she was pretty from twenty feet away.
O’Leary was the size of a refrigerator, with the eyes of a snake and a smile like a scar.
The sun felt warm on my face. White birds circled the sky. The smell of buttered popcorn wafted through the air.
She stretched out with a smile to receive me, like a hungry flower leaning towards the light.
The Sternwood estate was no flophouse. Fancy stone archways, wrought-iron gates, and the nose-tickling scent of roses in bloom.
Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled sadly; her eyes half-lit from the light of dead stars.
I entered the room slowly with my gun drawn, and saw a dark silhouette smoking a cigar.
Thick raindrops struck puddles like silver dimes.
Eddie Hobbs was a busted flush of a man, with a toupée so obvious it should’ve had a price tag.
A tall blonde in stiletto heels breezed by, invisible bulbs flashing.
A distant plane, tilting upward, left a scar-like trail in the sky.
Lies drift in like cheap perfume, the truth drifts in like shrapnel.
Sternwood’s wife was a busty redhead with big green eyes and strawberry milk skin. She was beautiful, but there wasn’t any future in it; like being good at Russian roulette.