Nine kinds of beautiful

She was nine kinds of beautiful and there were no two ways about it. She walked into my life like a breath of fresh air, a 5’8″ leggy brunette with a gaze of steel and the grace of a swan, the body of a goddess, hair done up tight in a way that meant business but promised pleasure later. Classy broads like her didn’t walk into my life every day. Hell, I’da been lucky to see a dame this good twice, ever. And what’s more, t’day, she needed me. Nothing gets a hold of a man’s ego like being needed by a lady, and she had me twirled around her finger like spaghetti ’round a fork.

Rose Luciatto, her name was. Exotic as that body. I glanced again at the photo, memorising the face, fixing it in my head like the dartboard on the back on my door. It was part of the job to recognise faces, even in dirty dark places. Slip up once, twice, bam, you were no better than any other schmuck off the street and good luck getting business.
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