Innocence of Guilt
Fired, retired, kick out, booted out, thrown out, drummed out, axed, sacked, and just plain ousted, you get the picture. Now former detective Scott Crownover was
no longer part of the San Francisco P.D., in case you didn’t understand.
Bills were piling up like dog shit in the living room. So, any job was a job. The job seems to be a perfect twenty-one ace and King hung out on the table easy scratch for just proving the guilt of an already guilty man. “So why didn’t I see the train rushing down the track right at me?” Because as my old man always said about me I’m a dumb ass.
This joint stinks, but it’s where I needed to be. It was the last stop on endless stops through the slum dive bars of this toilet city Discovery Bay. I was now at the bottom of the barrel at Eddie’s Place, but this joint felt like home. And this is where I found the dame L.J. Short for Lucky Jeannette, or so they say.
She was a size six stuffed into a size four dress and looked good. Armed with a pair of 32-DDD, she was hunting for a bear, and I hoped I was the bear. But everyone in this dingy joint hoped they were bears. What pack of drunks and losers this bunch was but weren’t we all?
This dame had the information I needed, innocence or guilt. Right now, I didn’t care. Lucky Jeannette was just warming up on stage, and this pack of drunks drooling like me were letting her know they wanted a slow show.