Please keep in mind that my writing tidbits are fiction. This one comes from February 20, 2001, Kirchoff’s. One can tell that I watch a lot of old, old detective stories:She peered at me over the half-glasses she wore as she wrote out the check. Sam was in the back room taking care of business when this broad came in the joint. Sleek dark hair pinned in one of those fancy chignons at the back, her dress was fitted red satin, framed in silver fox. Diamond rings on every finger. I even wondered about her toes. This was no ordinary dame. She was “class.” The kind of class every man dreams of, but hopes she has her own money. Yeah, my old lady couldn’t hold a candle to this dame. What was she doing in a joint like this? I soon found out. She wanted her husband dead, and she’d heard about me: Charlie, the hitman. She was a real looker all right. I might even have killed her husband for free, but she was willing enough to pay ten big ones.