silhouetted against the morning sun.
Then started across the room,
her dress a size too small,
hips swaying like a punch-drunk prize fighter.

I turned to Louie, “Turn down the heat.”

“But Boss, it’s summer.
The heat’s not on.”

I said, “The hell it ain’t."

She was two feet away.
The smell of cheap perfume
and gunsmoke filled the air.

“You must be Don.”
Her voice was low. Husky. Bacall.
“My name is . . .”
I held up a hand.

I knew who she was.
Trouble always finds me.
I just hoped she could shoot.

—Don