8:14 PM >> Mirral 7.3



INT. BAR - EVENING

"Yes, the usual," Parker nodded. He noticed the Bartender's new shoes. She's worn those old, tatter converse stars the two years he's been coming here. These didn't flatter the worn legs of her jeans the way the cons did. Starring down inspecting the new kicks his Bushmills slid across the bar in front of him. Bushmills neat, the usual.

"New kicks, huh, Doll? Tell me just what the hell's up with that?"

"My connie's were stolen," the vixen whimpered. "They were stolen and..."

She was upset. She shared the whole story. He took notes in a journalist's pad like a detective. He asked questions. Smoke cigarettes. Sipped Irish whiskey. When she had finished the lids of her eyes pooled with salty water. He handed her a bev nap. She began to weep, subtley to avoid any embarrassment she might face with her other customers.

"I'll promise you five grand, a generous note, if you can find them and return them to me," she proposed between snivels.

"Sure, Dame. I'll have them back to you as sure as death and as sure as taxes," Parker swaggered.

Standing he stubbed out his smoke, finished off the last swig of his neat from the tumbler, and put on his fedora and coat. He was out the door and on the case.