Usually reserved for calling dogs,
But it meant I had a case, and
The sound of greenbacks slapping
Across my palm is music to my
Ears any day. After all, I�m not
An opera critic. I�m a private eye.
My desk. One�s a gun,
And I keep it loaded.
The other�s a bottle
And it keeps me loaded.
I�m Tracer Bullet. I�m
A professional snoop.
tough guy. Some people don�t
like an audience when they
work. Enough of them have told
me so with blunt instruments
that I�m a phrenologist�s
dream come true.
Bills, though.
Especially Bill, my
Bookie, and Bill, my
Probation officer.
Brunette opened
My door with a
Case for me, my
Heart did a few
Callisthenics and
I took the job.
Case. She sounded like
A case herself, but I
Can�t choose my clients.
Pushy type,
The kind who�d
Break your
Heart, or
Maybe your
Arms, I
Hurried over.
Decorator, or her place
Had been ransacked by
Someone in a big hurry.
Hysterical.
Dames usually
Are.
Being cocked behind my
Head focused my thoughts
Like only a loaded .38 can.
Didn�t want me to solve the
Case at all! She just wanted
A patsy to pin the crime on!
The way this
Story was
Shaping up, so
I decided to
Write a new
Ending with
My .45 automatic
As co-author.
My friend who�s very close
To my heart. Just a
Little down and left,
To be specific.
Made three profound arguments while I
Excused myself from the room. I always
Leave when the talk gets philosophical.
Puzzle pieces together when
The dame�s hired
Goon jumped out
Of nowhere and
Practiced for
His chiropractic
Degree.
All-percussion symphony
Was playing in my head,
An the acoustics were
Incredible. The orchestra
Went on a ten-city tour
Of my brain, and I had a
Season pass with front
row seats.
Who trashed the dame�s
Living room, but since
She wasn�t my client
Any more I felt no
Need to divulge the
Information.
Culprit happened
To be a buddy
Of mine. I
Closed the case.
(New just stared)
