Shark's Tooth

“Yo?” she said.

“Yo, yourself,” said Terry.

She gave him a look that said she was about to go to the back and get the big flyswatter and take it to his behind.  Never said it; never had to.

“Yolanda.  Yo. Yo Murphy.  Poor girl washed up on the beach this morning.  Heard you two either had her case and were just down at the beach looking for cheap thrills.  Being a Christian woman, I gave you the benefit of the doubt and assumed you were working, instead of wasting the money good taxpayers like me give you for doing next to nothing.  However, Jesus has not blessed my heart with enough charity to allow me to assume you know what you’re doing.  So what do you think you know?”

Terry took out his notebook.  “Well, we know her name, now.”

“I’ll bet you know,” she drew the word ‘know’ into at least five syllables, “that a big old shark did it.”  She pulled up a chair and broke off a piece of Terry’s muffin.  “And I bet you’re wrong.  I bet the shark that did it comes into my living room every Thursday night at eight.”





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