"It's Sunday, the day of rest when he should have been in church, singing the praises. Instead, he sits at his desk, counting the change from his pockets, from the sofa, from the piggy bank in pieces before him. Not even enough for a cheap bottle of vodka let alone bullets. That's when he hears the rap, rap, rap of high heels on wood in the corridor outside his door. He loads his last bullet into his revolver and watches as the shadow of a lady moves on the other side of the half-glass walls."
"It's the pizza delivery boy," EE said. "He lost a bet and has to deliver the goods in drag. Did you bring pizza? Pepperoni pizza sounds good right about now."
"No pizza. No delivery boy. She hired him to find her husband and now her husband is dead. That's trouble. Widows and dead men don't pay when you deliver the body riddled with bullets."
"Does this private eye have a name? Like Jake or Zeke or Ace? They were great detectives. Characters should have names that match their line of work. I'm reminded of the fried chicken king -- Uncle Charlie's Chicken, Chicken, Chicken. Alas poor Charlie, I knew him well. He died when his delivery truck slid on grease leaking from the dumpster in back of his restaurant. Three bags of golden, luscious, finger-licking, crispy-crust breasts fell and crushed him."
Exasperated, the detective continued with his narrative. "She needs to find her husband's love child because the child has a map to Captain Kidd's treasure tattooed on his buttocks. He refuses. She insists and she's willing to pay."
"Speaking of butts, next time you pitch a novel, bring bacon crispies. Even a BLT would do."
"Do you ever say yes?" The detective moaned.