Boris the pug stood under the flickering streetlamp, his trench coat collar turned up against the chill and his flat little muzzle buried in the evening edition. The headline screamed “KILLER SEDUCTRESS STILL AT LARGE,” and the dago-print ink was still wet enough to smudge on his paw pads. He’d been tracking the story for days—some doll-faced angel of death drifting through the city’s dingiest gin joints, batting her eyelashes at the kind of mugs nature had already punished, then capping them between the peepers the moment they thought they’d hit the jackpot. According to tonight’s sheet, she’d just punched two more one-way tickets to the Great Beyond and slipped clean through the fingers of the boys in blue. Boris felt his tail twitch. A sultry murderess with a taste for hopeless saps? Yeah… that was exactly Jonny’s brand of trouble.
The pug snapped the paper shut and tossed a glance down the boulevard, knowing instinctively his partner was out there somewhere making eyes at the wrong woman. Jonny had a history of tumbling headfirst into a dame’s dimples and asking questions only after the funeral arrangements. Boris could almost smell disaster creeping on the breeze—sweet perfume laced with gunpowder and heartbreak. He broke into a trot, muttering under his breath. If this killer cupcake was half as good at playing the love-and-lead routine as the papers made her sound, Jonny was already on her dance card. And Boris needed to reach him before she decided to end the song with a bang.
Meanwhile, across town inside Jonny’s favorite watering hole—a joint where the barstools leaned like retired prizefighters and the jukebox coughed up sad saxophones—fate was already rolling snake eyes. An angelic devil in high heels sauntered in, all curves, confidence, and the kind of smile priests warn you about. Brigid O’Shaughnessy. Jonny took one look and felt his heart hiccup; she was the most luscious dame he’d clapped eyes on… at least since yesterday afternoon. As he nursed his virgin piña colada and rehearsed a dozen suave greetings he’d never say out loud, she marched straight up to him and purred, “My name’s Brigid. Let’s go back to my place.” Jonny thanked the heavens for his generous slathering of Hai Karate aftershave—liquid courage for the romantically doomed—and in less time than it takes a bartender to blink, he was following her out into the night, utterly unaware he was strolling hand-in-hand with the headline Boris was racing to outrun.
