Sifting through the venetians

It’d been a week, and still nothing. Jeff’s pencil stub ate into his damp pad. Damn rain wouldn’t stop, and then there was a complication. Shirley’s dead.

The servo was out of Tally-hos. How was a guy supposed to roll a smoke without Tally-hos. This dump got smaller every day. The city too. And more bloody. Jeff spat out his night’s oral detritus and creaked to his feet. Whiskey and OJ. Breakfast of champions.

The Roberts case had lasted too long. Soon they’d all be dead, and he’d be left with a cadaver to sign his checks. He needed answers.