BY JIM SPEARE
Copyright is held by the author.
A BEAUTIFUL blonde in a low cut dress walked into a police station. From behind his desk, Constable Stylo had followed her progress across the foyer with great interest.
“My husband is going to murder me tonight,” she said.
Cops love it when people talk dirty like that. They can’t help it. It’s genetic. His day had just gone from zero to 60 in four seconds. “How do you figure?” he said.
“He’s a writer. He wrote a story about it.” She held up a sheaf of papers.
“That wasn’t very smart of him.”
“I said he was a writer. I didn’t say he was smart.” She gazed at him through misty blue eyes and touched him lightly on the wrist. The contact was electric.
“Can you help me, officer?”
She seemed forlorn and sexy all at the same time. Constable Stylo felt his protective instinct begin to arise. He squirmed in his seat a little in an attempt to straighten it out.
He selected a form and began to write. To be helpful, and to ensure that he got everything he needed, she leaned in towards him. The shift in weight caused her top to open even more, revealing the fullness of her breasts and the constable’s eyes soon became captives. He had always fancied himself detective material and now, unexpectedly, he had a chance to practice.
Is that bra made of black satin? he mused, imagining how it must feel. And what do you suppose that little bow is for? He wrote clean off the side of the page. Without even detecting the slippery slope beneath, Stylo’s mind had plunged into the abyss.
“So can you come,” she asked drawing one perfectly manicured and polished fingernail across the manly hardness of his name tag, “Constable Stylo?”
Sensing he might have have missed something, Stylo, still firmly in charge said, “Um, what?”
“Can you come, silly? Tonight. To protect me.”
That evening she stood beside the large open window in her husband’s office as he entered. On his desk was a wooden box.
“What’s this?” he said.
“It’s a present,” she said. “I think we should act out that scene in your book. It might make it seem more realistic, and finally get something going. Fiction has to make sense you know.”
He nodded sagely. “Tom Clancy?”
“Yes. It shouldn’t take this long to write a best seller,” she said. “Do you know that I can read one in two or three weeks? We can barely pay the rent and I haven’t been on a vacation all year. Soon we’ll have to cash in your life insurance!”
He opened the box. “It’s a gun,” he said. He was after all a little bit smart.
“Yes. Now pretend you’re going to murder me. Let’s see if we can get something started.”
Her husband picked up the gun and pointed it menacingly. He muttered threatening words.
Constable Stylo was busy detecting just outside the window. When Mr. Ash lifted the gun, he sprang up from the azaleas like a Labrador on point. He raised his weapon, prepared to defend the peace. He lowered it briefly to switch off the safety and raised it again, armed and dangerous.
“Stop!” he cried. “Don’t do it!”
At that very instant there was a tremendous bang as a precariously balanced chair crashed to the floor, assisted by the foot of Mrs. Ash. She let loose a bloodcurdling scream and fell, clutching her breast.
As she did, Stylo’s weapon took on a life of it’s own. It exploded like a thing possessed, sending bullets blazing directly through the window and Mr. Ash fell to the ground, dead.
Shortly after arrival in Tahiti, the ex Mrs. Andrew Ash basked in the sunshine. She was enjoying the colourful frosty concoctions known as hummingbirds, made by the obliging young man with the rippling mahogany muscles, who delivered them whenever she beckoned. She stretched luxuriously on her lounger with such feline grace that she inspired more than a few spilled drinks and glances of vastly differing sorts amongst the male and female occupants of the beach. She had felt she should get far, far away from her troubles. So far in fact that neither she nor her lawyer could find mention of an extradition treaty. Also so far that it now seemed her large supply of recently acquired dollars might not last as long as she wished.
A cloud passed over her. She frowned and moved her floppy hat aside. She looked up through her designer sunglasses at Constable Stylo.
“Fresh drink dear?” he asked boyishly. His skin was pasty white; his shirt a little too flamboyant.
A well tanned officer watched as the beautiful blonde walked into his police station in Tahiti.
“My boyfriend is planning to murder me,” she said to him, tears spilling from her deep, blue eyes.
“And how do you know that, Miss?”
“He’s a writer,” she said sniffling. “He wrote a story about it.”
“That wasn’t very astute of him,” he said, gazing at the enchanting creature before him.
“I said he was a writer. I didn’t say he was astute.” As she made her appeal she leaned forward in her deliciously full bikini.
The constable became moved, and had to adjust his seating position.
“You’re the only one who can help me,” she purred, touching him lightly on the arm. “Have you ever felt the urge to travel?”