Corcoran Story - Chapter 11 - Marlowe

Don't let anyone tell you that private investigation is all nightlife and gorgeous babes.

The nightlife around here consists of one dive bar, Roscoe's on the beach road.

The scenery there is like the Hope diamond in a gimcrack setting, not half bad.

Inky'd had a rotten break, what with her family kicking off like the blackhats in a bad Western.

She bought herself a swanky place on the beach right after it happened
 

And found herself rattling around in there like a cue ball chasing the lone eight ball.

So when she asked, I moved in, even though I'm not looking to complicate my life.

It's not like she's looking for bling and promises.

After all, she's a copper and knows the score, even if they did park her in undercover vice.  She fulminated like an old 60-cup percolator over that one.

She's like a teppanyaki chef at the chess table.  No surprise there; the grandad who taught her was a Grand Master.

She could probably mop the floor with me in a few other ways as well, if it came to that.

We spend a lot of time at Roscoe's

Eavesdropping

And chatting up well-buttered suspects.

We made a great team until the bartender showed up here, down on his luck

And she moved him in with us.

I could have been jealous.

But I don't think he rolls that way.

Still, I was miffed

Until she wormed her way back into my good graces.

I can't say I object to the extra help.

And Blaine's not a bad sort, if you like the puppydog type.

So we're muddling along pleasantly enough.

When a babe starts worshipping at the porcelain altar, you know the plot is about to thicken.

 Twin boys, she says.

I have a feeling my life just got very complicated indeed.