The Way the Cookie Crumbles

[Extracted from the files of Mark Time P.I.]

She walked in on red heels and, in a cloud of exhaled smoke and expensive perfume, demanded my undivided attention, not the best of Mondays for a man in a predictably tiny office and ill fitting suit, I’ll admit, but then we who are dependent on the sins of the rich to butter our bread should look neither gift horses nor mixed metaphors in the mouth.