The smell of lavender announced her arrival. My nose expected a dowager in veils of charcoal gray but my eyes saw an angel in a dark-red silk suit cut on the bias. I swear her legs went up to heaven they were so long and her face, an alabaster Helen to bedevil my Paris.
"We need to talk Mister Editor."
"I'm not in a talking mood." He pushed a remote and the wail of a saxophone oozed from an IPOD.
"Then listen while I talk."
"Fair enough. Is it about a book? Don't say no. It's always about a book," he said as he poured two shots of scotch and pushed one towards the lady. She sat down in the chair and lifted the glass. We toasted. The dame drank the shot like a man. She crossed her legs and I choked like a twelve-year-old boy sneaking booze from his Daddy's hipflask.
"My husband is cheating with another editor. I need you to find out with whom." Her green eyes flashed desperation in the Morse code of my heart.
"You're woman enough for ten men. What sort of fool would cheat on a wife like you?
"A writer in search of a new editor. You know the mugs that edit for moola, finding the cheater should be easy. It's a mystery, a grim, gritty story about love and loss in the literary world. A slice of life and death in a small, midwestern town."
"Mystery you say. Does it have zombies? Car chases? Aliens falling from the skies? Explosions? Teen love? Illicit sex? Cheap bars and streetwalkers?"
"All that and me if you recover my book. I'll let you edit my pages." She leaned forward and licked her luscious, red lips.
What could I say? How could I refuse?