There was a knock at the door. A cop knock. Yeah, I know. But so help me, after all these years and all those busts, I can tell a cop knock. What’s more, I can tell a plainclothes knock from a uniformed knock. This was plainclothes.

            I took my nice little Kel-Tec pocket pistol out my pocket and let it fall down behind my chair cushion. If the cops were visiting on official business, I didn't want it on me. If they were on dirty business, I didn't want it too far away. Then, I walked back to the little corner desk where my computer was.

            I told her, "Gotta go, baby".

            "Awww, don't go," she pleaded. She looked up from what she was doing with Mr. Hairychest and quickly flashed those dark eyes at me. "It's just heating up,” she told me. “I've got some more friends coming over and it is gonna get so fucking hot you won't be able to stand it."

            "It's already so hot I can't stand it. I gotta go, babe."

            "Will you be back on later?"

            "Maybe. Maybe tomorrow."

            "Bye, hon.” She forgot me like a bar bet and abruptly turned back to Mr. Hairychest.

            I told myself, I was getting somewhere with her. She had just called me “hon”. You kids at home, here is some good advice: don't fall for a webcam girl, even if she is a redhead with ale-colored eyes. I went Start, Shutdown and she was gone.

            The detective at the door was Johnny Baca. I knew him because we not only grew up in the same neighborhood, but he is married to a cousin of my dead wife. I said, “You can come in, Johnny," and I stepped back from the door.

            Cautiously, he kind of nudged the door open with a foot and stepped into my craphole apartment.

            “I was just going to have a beer. You want one, Johnny?”

            "Nah," he said. "This won't take that long. Okay if I sit?"

            "Go ahead." I pointed him towards the couch.

            Johnny flopped down on my sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. I

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