Then they meet up with Peter Rozovsky.
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Her voice told a smoky tale of cigarettes and whiskey, but it lied. She never touched either.
"Think I'd be able to do this if I wasted all my time hanging in bars with you and Burke and McFetridge?"
"But — "
She whipped her fists into the speed bag so hard and fast that I felt sorry for the bag. Chin tucked, knees flexed, back straight. Elbows in, back heel lifting slightly each time she struck. Her two fists became four, then six, her breath short, spitting wheezes with each punch. I got tired watching her.
But she did hang in bars. But I didn't hang with Burke and McFetridge. I'd never heard of them till we set up the connection and I ripped them off. But —
"But why the hell all this? You write crime fiction. You — "
She stopped punching, and she smiled as she blew a wisp of platinum hair from her left eye. "Would you want to be whipped by a fat dominatrix?"
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(Read the rest of "The Baltimore Drive-by" so far here. And remember: This is fiction. Almost none of it really happened.)
© Peter Rozovsky 2008
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