Dirk Branson sat in his office, staring at the motes of dust that hovered in the hot beam of summertime which fell across his desk from the open window. From outside came the distant parrumble of a city in motion, carrying the faint scents of urban haze, car exhaust and cooked meat. It was mid-July, and the city was hot enough to fry a dozen eggs on, along with the chicken that laid them. 

The beam of light from the window thrust down through the dark and dingy confines of his office like a knife through a cadaver, glinting off two objects which sat atop his ancient wooden desk - the two most important objects in his world right now: his chrome plated, pearl-handled 45 revolver, and a freshly opened bottle of Kentucky Red. 

He cradled a half glass of that liquid poison in his hand now.  

Rotating the glass slowly, he watched the rosy liquid slosh around. There was no ice in it, not in this stifling heat. He held the glass up, letting the light catch it, and admired its almost blood-like hue, just pausing and letting it dance under the glow of the afternoon sun before finally tipping it back and letting it roar down his throat and set his senses ablaze. 

He'd have another soon, but not just yet. He had things to do first.

Setting the now empty glass down, he glared at the door of his office. He knew what was coming. It would open momentarily, and trouble would walk in. He had a sense for it. It always happened this way. Always. 

And sure enough, right on cue, the door opened and in walked The Blonde. 

She was tall and leggy, statuesque and beautiful enough to make a greek goddess writhe with envy. She stood awkwardly in a crimson evening gown and matching shoes, the left one with the heel broken off, and she clutched a small black patent leather purse to her ample breast, whose clasp was missing a single pearl. 

As she glanced around, he could see that her makeup was smeared, her desperate gaze coming from behind a semi-concealing lace brocade that fell from a small circular velvet cap fronted with a diamond brooch. She shifted her weight atop her ruined footwear, causing a single long delicate leg to slide smoothly out through the side-slit in her dress, now exposed provocatively from ankle to hip. It was creamy, it was perfect. He let his eyes run up and down it like a track star doing wind sprints. 

"The dance studio is across the hall." he barked. 

She seemed startled by his outburst, but steeled herself and stepped forward.

"No!" She said, stumbling forward, further into the office. "I - I need help, I need you mister Branson."

He questioned her with his gaze, saying nothing. It was an old tactic that always worked. And once again it paid off. Fumbling with her purse, she drew forth an object and set it before him on the desk. 

It was a paperback novel, roughly 200 pages. It's cover art cracked and scuffed, It's binding worn, showing that it was well read, and the dull orange industrial stain on the edge of the pages gave way to paper browned with age. It was a book that had seen the world, many times. And probably not on good terms. 

Staring out from the cover was his own face. 

"The seven-second solution, a  Dirk Branson mystery" it read, in once-brightly colored letters. He spun slowly around in his chair, turning his back to her, to study it away from the glare from the window. 

The cover art, which had been picked out in swashes of paint under the highly-skilled hand of an artist whose signature red simply "McKean" showed him sitting in his office, sunlight beaming in through the window. It was all there - the dinge, the gun, the bottle. The leggy blonde standing in the doorway. He was even holding the book. Looking closer, he could almost make out the title through the impressionistic brushwork. 

Feeling a dull tingle at the back of his skull, he recognized it as the scene he was currently sitting in, and with a low growl, he made the same face as on the cover art. Turning back to face her, he held the book aloft and waved it at her. 

"Whadda ya want from me, sister?"

"I need..." she swallowed, "I need you to find out.... who is trying to murder my husband!"

There was a quiet moment of stillness, and then with a sigh of resignation,  Dirk thumbed through the novel to the last few pages and read. 

"It says here you did it, and then tried to string me along as your patsy so I would take the fall." He glared at her, snapped the book shut, dropped it on his desk and yanked open the top right drawer. Inside was a cracked, bakelite rotary telephone. Dialing once, he lifted the receiver to his ear. 

"MacTavish? I need two of your finest in my office immediately."

There was a pause. 

"Yes, it's another one." He growled, before hanging up. 

Within moments, two uniformed policemen had arrived and placed her under arrest. The crisp royal blue of their suits clashed with the dull brown of his office. He paid it no notice.

As they started to lead her away in handcuffs, she paused and turned back to face him. "But I haven't done anything yet." she implored. 

He chewed the words out like a mouth full of gravel - "Attempted murder is still a crime, lady. She's all yours, boys."

"But, what's going to happen to me?" She cried, as the policemen seized her by the arms. 

He held up the paperback novel, gripping a corner between two fingers like a dead fish. It swung gently in the heated air like a corpse at the end of a noose. 

The whole world seemed to hold it's breath.

"They're going to throw the book at you." he said. 

As the police led her away, from off in the distance came the sound of a slow, smoky saxophone. 

He poured himself that next drink.

Case closed.