A Purple Place for Dying

McGee did not like Mona Fox Yeoman. She seemed artificial, self-important. She was provocative rather than seductive, a dare more than a desire. She made a man want to shake her up, to mat that twenty-five-dollar hairdo and knock that lady-of-the-manor style of hers on its can.

But nobody ever would. Because in one minute she was a big creamy bitch standing right next to McGee -- and suddenly she was fallen cooling flesh skittering into the dust with a hole as big as your fist through her wishbone.

For McGee that should have been it. The client was dead. No fee. No tears. Forget it, boy. Pick up and pack out.

Yeah. Sure. You better believe it.

Not McGee.