Overweight, under-kempt and bitch to the bone, she was also my boss, Agnes Brody. I've never been quite sure whether her intentions were to fuck me or...fuck me over. Probably both."I've got a case for you," she said with as much enthusiasm as contempt. "Designer pillows, disappearing by the dozens. I think it's an inside job." Suspects?" I asked."It's all in the file," she said tossing it on my desk. "I want it figured out by week's end."Figures, I thought. I half-wondered if she wanted me to. History appeared in a whirlpool jumble: John Hinkley. James Earl Ray. A Dallas motorcade. A motel balcony in Memphis. A bullet split open her husbands skull, then it struck King in the face, puncturing his jugular and breaking his neck. The friends and families and security guards had piled upon the two massacred men, but they were too late. They were always too late. The failing breaths of dying bodies struggled forth to ask their urgent question: ‘I’m gonna cum inside you, girl… Do you want. More

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