I sat alone,
a dimly lit booth in the back corner.
Joe’s was nearly empty.
All I had was my newspaper and a lousy cup of coffee,
and suddenly a broad walked in.
She was a real dish, and she knew it.
Every man in the room stood like a dolt, gawking.
A kitten with a sultry mouth painted in copper-red,
dark flashy eyes, coal-black hair that fell to her shoulders,
a tight little dress and killer legs.
She took her time walking to the counter,
swaying her sweet caboose.
My gaze was interrupted right then, as
Doghouse Stanley burst through the door.
One glance and he’d found my table, ambling over.
Hey, “what’s the rumpus,” he said – “I got here as soon as I could.”
He slid into the booth, eager for news.
I lit a cigarette and puffed on it, nodding towards the broad.
“Whaddya make of that?” I said.
“She looks like hot trouble and I’m fixin’ ta get me some,” he said with a grin.
“The hell you won’t,” I said. “That’s Rita Diamond.”
Fury flamed through his eyes.
“She’s the one who knocked off Jimmie,” he hissed.
He balled his fists and before he could lunge
at the two-faced whore, I grabbed his shirt.
“Sit down and listen, pal. If you wanna get rid of this broad,
we’ll do it right, we’ll do your brother justice.”
He calmed himself, but trembled slightly.
“I know you wanna get your mitts on the lady but
let’s blow this joint and talk business elsewhere,” I said.
As we left she shot me a glance
and batted her long, sinful lashes.
She was hot trouble alright.