She considered flirting a discipline to better evolve, mature, and evoke her capacity for spontaneity. Thus began her plan for this seduction.
Her deconstruction of Jacques ran page after page, all single spaced.
Her wardrobe a weapon designed to limit retreat and penetrate any redoubt Jacques may repair to. Her perfume pick to atomize polygonally. Her laugh choreographed to cavort at his timely witticism, and each utterance to his reply intoned as invitation.
Then she shredded those single spaced pages. Shipped the wardrobe to her sister. The perfume to her mother. Blue toothed with Hank Williams in the shower. Blushed her face. Struggled into torn jeans. Filled a flask to hip pocket, then ubered a lift to the park, to sit in the grass and watch Jacques play softball.
It was the low that follows the high of writing well. And amateurs don’t trim for altitude, they fly by attitude, and another drink.
Bourbon four arrived with a high-five, courtesy of Chief Of Detectives Ketchum. You’re a poet son, she said, you’re pure Shakespeare.
Well, the play is the thing and the shooting was bad. But I pencil whipped it to righteous.
The cop was eleven months from having his years. He took one in the shoulder in 96. Has no quick draw rep, not a red flag on his record. He lost his son in the sand in 09.
The kid he killed was luckless. More vic than perp. Collectively nurtured social by-product. No natural-born bad ass.
By my count, factoring the pluses and minuses, the kid’s number was just up. His name on the bullet. That shit simple.
And somehow, my by now, signature summations… still continue to “shine on” that Civilian Police Review Board.
Bourbon five appears like magic, with a yell from the end of the bar.
“Hey Scribe, you’re one helluva cop…here’s to our sins.”
“Thanks Captain, and to that special rung.”
She chose the name Parker. She liked Dorothy’s pithiness. That, and when not working, Parker wore glasses.
And tonight, she wore but an outsized, dark cardigan, and mid-brow high heels.
This was the third time this year Parker worked the poker game. The same five gentlemen. Each time, a different hotel, but a similar up-market suite.
And her duties. Fetch a few drinks with poise and an occasional pout. There was suitable banter and minimal leer.
The poker ended at midnight. And with the last hand, Parker became part of the ante.
The rule: the big winner of the evening could have Parker for the night, or allocate that opportunity to one of the other four.
Parker was curious.
Two times previously the game had ended with the winner, or his surrogate, deferring.
Each settled for a visual once over, a blush, and a handshake. Both tipped liberally.
But tonight’s winner, Parker noted, had won with queens, which he referred to, in a whisper, as three harlots.