I have no idea what the hell I just said, to be honest, but let's just say the dame needed help. She needed it bad.

So I pried further. "What is it that you've lost, letshavesexonmydesk?"

"What did you say?"

"Uh, nervous tick. So, what have you lost?"

Slick recovery, I thought to myself as I waited for her to say something.

"I've lost my -- my," she couldn't finish as she broke down, her swimming pool eyes overflowing with tears.
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"Just tell me maam', let me help you." I said in my best hope this bitch hires me to help her so I can buy more scotch voice.

"I've lost my autographed Jim Plunkett jersey that I got in the divorce of my ex-husband. He was a Chiefs fan so he stole it since he knew that was the only way he could really hurt me. He could f*ck around on me, never come home.. none of that mattered. But f*ck with my Raiders... well that rips me apart emotionally. I can buy more spiked shoulder pads, darth vader masks and so on, but that was signed by Jim right after I swallowed his manhood, so it can never be replaced."
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"Plunkett, eh?" I said to the dame. I'd remembered Plunkett. Helluvan arm he had.

Her deep eyes sunk into mine.

"This isn't cheap. Give or take, we're talking around..."

I stopped when she pulled out the black leather briefcase. My heart started beating wildly, and then she opened it.
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I felt like someone had walked over my grave at that moment.Out of her satchel she produced a pair of
jewel encrusted sunglasses...adorned with the letters
"A.D."

"Those belong to my nemesis Dr. A. Davis!",i said with
a startled cry."I thought i killed him years ago...."
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Davis, Davis the name came at me like a pack of wild dogs. I thought I would never hear that name again. I sank down in my chair and stared at the papers on my desk.
But I was being rude. "Have a seat Miss Davis." As she sat down I got a good look at her gams. My eyes moved on up from there. This dame was built like Arrowhead stadium.
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Wait a second! I thought. All of a sudden the dots were connected. A. Davis! Miss Davis! It all made sense!

Figuring Davis was not that common of a name, I inquired about my old nemesis, but not in any way that would arouse suspicion.
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"So, Miss Davis. Your husband..."

"Ex, husband, Mr. Hunt."

"I'm sorry. Ex-husband."

She was a persistant, fiesty one. She had the look of a Bronc fan after a loss. And I knew those looks.

"Where...where does your ex-husband live, Ms. Davis?"

"Oh, he splits time between Los Angelos and Oakland. Frankly, I couldn't tell you exactly. I think he also said something about Mexico City."

That's where it hit me like a bull. Mexico City. My god the memories arose from me like...something that rises quickly.
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I recalled the poisoned water... the giant mosquitoes... waking up covered in honey and wearing only socks in the middle of a bullfighting arena...

But nothing having anything to do with Davis. So I kept asking quizzically.

"You say that your husband went back and forth between L.A. and Oakland?"

"Yes," she replied, "but I think he settled for Oakland."

I laughed very hard and milk came out of my nose. Oddly enough, I had not been drinking milk.

An awkard silence blanketed the room.

"So... you wanna go do something?"
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She glanced at my desk. Then back to me. She smiled. She started to reach over...

With one swipe I threw everything off my desk into a disorganized array of clutter. "Touch me baby..." I repeated to her. "Touch me like you've never touched anyone before."

She pulled back with shock in her eyes.

"I just wanted to know if this desk was oak or maple you sick f*ck!"
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Dammit!

"Uh.. yeah, that's what I meant..." my eyes wandered the room nervously. "Uh... it's actually balsa. You know, budget cuts."

"I think it's oak..." she said.

"GAWDDAMMIT YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW THE F*CKING DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BALSA AND OAK!?!?"

She sat there, shocked.

"I forgot to take my medicine this morning..." I covered.

"Okay..." she replied, having no clue what the hell was going on.
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And the truth was, I had no clue what was going on either. We sat for awhile, ruminating over the previous minute and a half.

To break the silence, I offered her a coffee. "No thanks."

"Water?"
"No, I'm fine."

I cleared my throat...

"So, your ex-husband...Where were we?"
"Oakland, and then you had your little...spill."
"Ah, that's right." I said, lighting up a smoke.

"And what does he do now, Ms. Davis?"
"He's a businessman. An owner of something, god knows what."

Then I remembered. The team. The Mexican Bandits. We had both owned the Bandits 25 years ago. Happy, friendly, owners. But one day...
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The dirty thought cleared from my mind.

It was apparent this woman didn't know her husband owned "her" beloved r.aiders.

"Ms. Davis, before we go into any more details, I need to tell you something."

I told it to her. Straight. It was tough, but it was necessary. She sat down silent.

I looked at her with loving eyes. The poor doll. I excused myself so she could be alone for a while.

When I came back in, the window was open, the shade flapping in the breeze. I ran to it. There she was, fallen from a one story building, and dead...as dead as the 2004 chargers.

After my initial shock, I smiled. "Oak or maple?" I amusingly asked myself. It was so obviously balsa.

As I listened to the radio that night, I heard the strangest thing. The "dead" girl...Ms. Davis...had fled from the police station and was gone.
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Fearing of an actual plot, I decided to let it rest. She wasn't my responsibility. I laid back, lit a stoagie, and let the ashes fall to my naked body.
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Six hours later I awoke with a hangover from hell and burnt pubic hair. I wonder what's next for me. More scotch I'm sure, but I've had enough dead girls and Raider fans to last me for awhile. Sometimes I wonder how I continue to go on in this life, then I remember...
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Trinidad & Tobago - March, 1999
"So you want it, or not? I don't have all day, you know."
"Look, I'm trying to make up my mind. You sure you're not a cop?"
"If you don't order something soon, we're going to have to ask you to leave. And why would a cop be working at a coffee shop, sir?"
"Because you're sneaky like --"

My reminiscing was cut short by the sound of heels clicking towards my door. The sound was then replaced by that of of a thin, raspy knock.
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