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Mr. Black,” she quipped.
    Then, in a disgusted tone, she asked, “Are you smoking?”
    Frank looked at the cigarette, then the phone, then back at the cigarette before tossing the whole smoke on the sidewalk.
    Stomping it out with his foot he said, “No.”
    “I’d appreciate if you didn’t,” she demanded.
    Without pause she interrogated him one last time about the break-in. When Frank stood by his story, she disconnected the call.
    Frank stared at his phone for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and shoved it back in his pocket. Holding the day-planner tight in his hand, Frank made his way back into the bar to finish getting drunk.
    He pushed his way back to his corner and found a freshly poured scotch waiting for him. Not one to ask questions, he swigged it back and hailed Ted for another.
    As he sat in wait for his third glass of scotch, Frank browsed the photos on his phone. Frank never left a crime scene without capturing an ample amount of photographic evidence. It had become a habit of his; a requisite for the job. Being of the private sector, Frank didn’t have the liberty of returning to a crime scene without raising suspicion or breaking laws. Though Frank was no stranger to bending the rules, he knew they’d have it in for him if he started stepping on the wrong toes, and when Frank started stepping on toes, bones were bound to break. In the past, it was usually his own, so this was his compromise; stealing evidence, snapping photographs and keeping quiet about the whole thing.
    Frank scrolled through the thumbnails. Pictures of Judge Johnson’s contorted body and agonizing stare flashed across his eyes. Then, interrupting his descent into misery, a delicate hand with long, French-tipped nails reached across his view, placing his next scotch on the table.
    “Hey there, stranger,” a husky, breathless voice called out from above.
    Frank looked up to see the owner of the sultry voice and dainty hand. Standing over him was a sexy, slender librarian with dark brown hair and legs that went on for days. Her blouse was unbuttoned, revealing the swollen curves of her milky breasts, her nipples barely covered by the thin, white fabric. Small, horn-rimmed glasses were perched on her tiny nose and a copy of Catcher in the Rye gripped in her hand. You could just barely taste the lavender of her perfume over the salty flowers and spilled beer of the club. She planted her stiletto on the seat beside Frank and spread her knees, showing him the thin sheet of red lace deep between her thighs.
    “Nice, Doll,” Frank said as he looked her up and down.
    She leaned forward, smiling and arching her back as she swung her shoulders from side to side, giving him a better view of the mountains beneath her blouse.
    “Care for some company?” she cooed.
    Frank tapped the book in his pocket as he considered the work to be done. Then, without much of a pause, he turned his phone face down on the table.
    “I’d love some, Rose,” he declared, wrapping his palm around his glass, taking a swig and scooting to make room for her.
    Of all the girls at Eazy’s, Rose was definitely his favorite. She always had been, ever since he started watching over this place. She was his backup. What he couldn't do—or wouldn't do—she would.
    She sat close, crossing her long, creamy thigh over his wrinkled black slacks.
    “How are things, Frank?” she asked as she ran her nails along his neck. “You look troubled. Been a long day?”
    “It has,” he said, brushing her hand away.
    He looked at her and smiled, “How’s business outside the club?”
    She threw him a pout and answered, “Business is business, honey.” Tipping her glasses to inspect Frank, she asked, “How about you? Where’ve you been?”
    Frank flipped over his phone so he could see the face, Johnson’s body prominent on the screen.
    “Here and there,” he replied.
    She traced her fingers over his chest, saying, “I see you’re wearing that vest again