It was an ordinary day. An ordinary day where some kids would fall in love, some would break hearts. Baby's would be born, and some poor Joe Schmo would end up at the city morgue, just a block away from my office.

The office had been open three weeks. Office was a grand term for a room in a flea pit run down building in Queens, and in that time not a single rotten soul had crossed that threshold but my own. You leave the force and you expect a good pal to throw you a bone now and then, but hey, this was New York and everybody was in it for themselves.

Money was getting tighter than a nuns kiss, and the rent was due. It wouldn't be long before I'd be back down Arnie's this time so can pawning the retirement watch the boys in the precinct had given me. The one to say ‘job well done Sam, great work getting your leg in the way of that bullet.’

I scrunched up another ball of paper and made a shot at the wastepaper basket. It joined the rest of them sitting on the floor.

There was a knock at my door, a tall silhouette stood in the glass. Was my luck about to change? Sure was, but not for the better, because even though I didn't know it at the time, that was death knocking at my door.

I sat straight at my desk, flattened my lapels, and pushed my hair back. I spied the empty bottle of gut rot on its side on my desk and that quickly disappeared.

“Come in.” I called and the shadow duly obliged.

Now I'd seen some dames in my time, but believe me when I tell you, this was a dame that would blow your wig. Blonde hair curled at her shoulders, ruby red lips, and cheeks you could shave with. Her clothes would have covered a month's rent, so I guessed this broad had money, or at least her old man did, and he wasn't afraid to throw it around.

“Are you Sam Stockley? The Sam Stockley that solved the Waterhouse murders?”

The voice was pure transatlantic and woke up parts of me I hadn't noticed were sleeping. If this broad could talk the birds from the trees, her eyes would be the things to keep them there. Green and dazzling like a cabs headlights in a dark alley. And the voice knew what it was talking about. The Waterhouse murders had been hot news for a few months, a lifetime ago.

“Sure, that's me, what can I do for you, Miss…?”

“ Missus. I need the services of a private dick, and your name was suggested to me by a friend of my father's.”

“ Well I owe this friend of your father's a hot meal, if he's sending me a customer like you. “What exactly is it I can do for you, Mrs…?” I invited her to fill in the blank, but she gave the implication a swerve.

“ It's my husband. He's having an affair.”

The guys had warned me this was the track I'd be running, divorces, affairs, spouses on the right side of the wrong bed.

“Well why would you think that?” I asked her.

She reached into her handbag and brought out a handkerchief to dab at her dry eyes. “ A wife can tell Mr Stockley, and I need you to follow him and bring me the proof.”

“What's your husband's business?” I had a nagging doubt rattling around my upstairs.

“His business is money, Mr Stockley, any way he can get it.”

The nagging doubt rolled around my roulette wheel and was about to settle in the double zero.

“What should I call you? Mrs…?”

There was no avoiding it this time.

“ Mrs Capuozzo.” The broad answered. Sometimes being right wore you thin.

“ Capuozzo? You'll be upset to learn there's a gangster that shares that name Mrs Capuozzo.’

“Yes. That's my husband.”

It'll be easy for you to tell me, after the fact, that you should have turned that broad around, put leather to her keister and kicked her down the road, but you weren't sitting there Jack, you weren't the one with stars in your eyes spying a girl that had fallen right out of your dreams.

“ Look Mr Stockley, I understand you'll think my husband is a dangerous man to know, but he's a pussycat really. I'm willing to pay you two hundred dollars, fifty now and the rest when you bring me my proof.”

That was some folding money. That would run a long way round these parts. But there was only one thing to say to an offer like that. And that was, beat it. Walk to the pier and keep walking. Two hundred dollars was a lot of walking around dough, but what good’s that with lead windows in your dome.

I told her as much.

“Mr Stockley, I came here because I was told you were a brave man,” she picked up a pen from my desk and let it rest on her lips. She looked to be thinking. I was thinking that if the pen stayed there any longer it would start squirting it's ink. “ This is my address,” she wrote on a scrap of paper, “If you are half the man I thought you were, you'll take this job and be here at seven this evening, when my husband leaves for the club.”

Now I wasn't about to be bamboozled by a set of green eyes and a big rack. “Mrs Capuozzo, I am plenty man, and I'm man enough to walk away from a bum deal.”

“Plenty man?” She asked,her tone changing subtly. She reached out and grabbed my tie. She let it run through her fingers, gently pulling me forward until our faces were a foot apart.

“Mr Stockley, my gratitude for you, if you take this job, would be unbounded. And I like to show my gratitude…physically.” Her red lips were now a whisky cork from mine, as she pulled me closer. The urge to kiss this doll face was unbearable.

She suddenly pulled back and stood.

“Say, have you eaten today?” The question came out of left field. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her knee length skirt and began shuffling it up her stockinged thighs. Get an eyeful of those walkers I thought. She kept going, revealing the straps of her garter belt, and didn't stop till the dress sat on her hips. Guess she didn't have that much dough after all because it appeared she couldn't afford underwear. Her neat bush was uncovered and unashamed.

“ Well Mr Stockley? Would you like to eat?” She asked running a finger up her thigh and between her lips.

I have never claimed to be a clever man, but I can tell the difference between a steak and a hamburger, and I'd been eating hamburger my whole life. This was an opportunity I couldn't let pass, even if it was with a gangsters moll and was likely to leave me wearing a Chicago overcoat.

I stood and limped around my desk, the bullets kiss was always with me. She swept my desk clear and perched her bare behind up on top of it. I stood in front of her, her legs open like saloon doors.She reached out and put a finger on my lips.

“So you'll take my job?” She asked, eyes half lidded and hungry, a wolf at my door.

Mama always told me I'd end up in trouble if I followed where my stick pointed, and I guess she knew best after all.

“Sure, I'll take your Job, lady.” I confirmed from behind her finger.

“Then proceed Mr Stockley.” She said as she wriggled herself forward and inched towards the edge of my desk. I went to my knees and put my mouth where my money was. She tasted sweeter than an April rain and just as wet. Her hands found the back of my head and the rhythm of her hips let me know I was doing a good job.

I don't know what was hotter, the iron in the holster at my hip or the iron in my pants, but only one was likely to go off in the next few minutes. She had her eyes shut tight and moaned like a revving engine. She suddenly grabbed me by my lapels and hoisted me to my feet.

“Is that just for decoration or do you plan on using it soon?” She gestures towards the noticeable bulge in my pants. She scrambled at my belt and fly's, eager as a cat at a mouse ring-a-ding-ding.

She released me, and within a second I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

She felt good. Real good. There weren't so many notches on my bedpost to compare, but this doll was the best of a bad bunch and it wasn't a contest.

She wrapped her pins around me, her hands back for support, and raised her hips off my desk, making love to me like she was starving and I had the last slice of pumpkin pie on earth. She rode my wood with gusto.

Her head flew back and she yelled words that would make my police buddies blush as I galloped that mare to the finish line. She shook like she was dancing the hot squat shuffle on old sparky and I felt her clench and spasm under me

She pushed me off of her, and dropped to her knees. Only one girl had put me in her mouth before, but this was a different hill of beans. She did tricks with her tongue that would embarrass a rattlesnake and I felt this speeding to an end.

“Lady, this train is leaving the station,” I warned her.

“Who ever said I was a lady?” She answered and began to work me harder with her hand and mouth.

The wash of pleasure I felt had my bum leg close to buckling, so I let go of my last resistance.

She stared up at me as I pulsed and twitched in her mouth. The dame didn't spill a drop. She slid my shooter out of her mouth with a pop, stood, retrieved her handkerchief and dabbed the corners of her lips demurely. The brass on this moll.

“Well Mr Stockley, I can assume you'll be at my house for seven sharp?” She said, straightening her clothes.

I stood where she left me, buttoning myself back up.

“You can assume that, Mrs Capuozzo.” I answered her, unsatisfactorily.

“Thank you Mr Stockley” she said leaning past me and putting ten five dollar bills on my desk. She stopped next to my ear and whispered, “Don't rule out another bonus for a job well done.”

She turned to leave and I watched her all the way out my door. That was a dangerous woman, but I'd just accepted my first case. And I had a feeling, one way or another, it could be my last.