When the law meets the gutter, someone is bound to get dirty.
Writer’s Prompt
The rain in this city doesn’t wash things away; it just adds a greasy cinematic sheen to the misery. I was
nursing a lukewarm bourbon when Julian walked in. He’s the District Attorney, the kind of guy who presses his suits and actually believes in the “sanctity of the court.”
“Vane,” he said, dropping a folder on my desk. “The O’Malley witnesses are disappearing. I need a lead, not a hangover.”
I looked up. He looked good. Too good for a Tuesday. “And I need a vacation, Julian. But we all have our crosses to bear.”
I stood up, closing the distance between us. The air smelled like cheap gunpowder and his expensive sandalwood aftershave—a combination that usually ended in a warrant or a mistake. He didn’t flinch. He never flinches.
“You’re a liability, Maxine,” he whispered, though his hand lingered on my shoulder a second too long.
“And you’re a Boy Scout with a hero complex,” I countered. “We’d be a disaster.”
“We are a disaster,” he corrected, pulling me closer. “The press would have a field day. The mayor would have my head. And you… you’d probably pick my pockets while I slept.”
“I’d definitely pick your pockets,” I smiled, feeling the cold weight of my .38 against my hip and the warmth of his breath on my neck.
The sirens were wailing three blocks over. The city was screaming, but for a moment, the office was silent. He leaned in, the line between justice and a felony blurring into a gray smudge.
Then, my desk phone rang. It was the tip I’d been waiting for—the location of the O’Malley stash. Julian saw the look in my eyes. He knew.
The phone is screaming, the D.A. is waiting for a kiss, and the biggest bust of Maxine’s career is one phone call away.
Finish the Story
Does she pick up the receiver to secure the conviction, or does she let it ring to see if the D.A. is actually worth the scandal?
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