Jonny knew the day was cursed the moment his morning Scotch missed his mouth and soaked his brand-new shoulder holster. A man can forgive a lot, but wasting good Scotch was a crime against civilization.
Things only got worse.
Their latest client—the poor sap who’d finally been proven innocent of skimming city money—celebrated the good news by hanging himself in his cell before the paperwork was dry. Then the doc gave Jonny the cheerful bulletin that the pounding behind his eyes wasn’t a hangover or a tumor.
Late-stage syphilis.
Just the kind of news a guy wants before lunch.
So Jonny did what any reasonable private dick would do: he dragged Boris into the nearest dive bar to drown the day in something brown and dangerous.
That’s when he saw her.
She was perched on a barstool like trouble carved out of red silk—hair like a four-alarm fire, legs that seemed to go all the way to Sacramento, and eyes that could make a bishop pawn his halo.
Jonny was trying to cook up a line that didn’t sound like it came off a greeting card when the redhead slid off the stool and walked straight over.
“I live next door, handsome,” she said, voice smooth as contraband whiskey. “How about you come upstairs for a drink and a few hours of violent anal sex?”
Jonny nearly broke the land-speed record for standing up.
But Boris, who’d seen enough sucker plays to write a textbook, narrowed his eyes.
“What’s that gonna cost him, Red?”
“The name’s Harmony,” she purred. “And I don’t charge for my pleasure. Not with the right fella. I make my money other ways.”
Boris studied her face the way a card shark studies a deck. The pug knew a lie when he heard one. This didn’t sound like one.
Ten minutes later they were in Harmony’s loft.
Jonny stripped down like a man auditioning for a romance magazine and stretched out across the bed, practicing a few seductive poses he’d picked up from questionable cinema. Boris planted himself at the foot of the mattress with the evening paper and the expression of a dog who expected disaster.
Harmony drifted into the bathroom.
“I’ll be ready in a second,” she called. “Might want to stretch those hamstrings.”
Jonny grinned like a lottery winner.
“See, Boris? Life turns on a dime. Couple hours ago I had the worst day of my life. Now I’m about to split that lovely lady’s butt cheeks in half.”
Boris suddenly froze.
His eyes were glued to the newspaper.
“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Look at the date.”
“Relax,” Jonny groaned. “I’ll pay the cable bill when we get home. Britbox isn’t going anywhere.”
“No, you idiot,” Boris snapped. “It’s the thirteenth.”
“Yeah, and?”
The pug slammed the paper down.
“Friday the thirteenth! The universe has rules, pal. One of them is that nothing this good ever happens to you on a day like this.”
Jonny laughed. “Old Wives’ tale.”
The bathroom door opened.
“And I used to be a wife,” Harmony said pleasantly as she stepped out.
The redhead was smiling.
She was also holding a pistol pointed straight at Jonny’s heart.
“These days,” she continued, “I’ve got a new line of work.”
Jonny’s grin melted.
“Hired assassin,” Harmony said. “Mob pays very well.”
Boris slowly lowered the newspaper.
“And tonight,” she added sweetly, “I’m cashing a very generous contract.”
The gun didn’t waver.
Jonny sighed.
Just his luck. Friday the thirteenth.