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Feminine Fisticuffs
There were freshly shaved legs flying everywhere. Cardinal hadn’t seen so much flesh in motion since he took a front seat at Radio City Music Hall as a teenager. Before long all four women were glistening with sweat, fabric adhering transparently to skin, and at that point it might as well have been a porn movie.
One of the girls got a good lick in on Marsha and she went crashing into the table right next to him. As she got up moisture and heat flowed from her, and she slowly spread her feet apart, lowering her center of gravity in anticipation of an offensive move. Her muscles flexed rhythmically, thighs, shoulders, neck, and even a part of her torso now visible though a tear in the maid’s outfit. Her fall, disappointingly, had toppled his glass of bourbon and water. He had been looking forward to sharing what was left of it, rohypnol and all, with the winner.
Despite a three-to-one disadvantage, as the fight progressed Marsha began to gain the upper hand. All those months of lifting his capital crime file had really built her stamina. Perhaps more relevantly, Marsha had brass knuckles, and was using them with great skill. After the four of them had smashed both lamps, most of the furniture, and left half a dozen cranium-sized holes in the drywall, Marsha picked up what was left of the table top and smashed it on the heads of two of the girls. Then she pivoted in one Rockette motion and got the third in the face with both brass knucks. In three efficient seconds, all three were knocked unconscious.
Oh, well, Cardinal thought. He wouldn’t have wanted any of those three women now, not after the job Marsha had done to their faces.
Marsha’s momentum carried her into the corner of the room, and in exhaustion she stumbled down to her hands and knees. There wasn’t a lot left of that maid’s outfit now. Slowly, perspirationally, she rose to her feet. John stood up out of his chair.
“Fine work. Couldn’t have done better myself.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean to tell me you weren’t duct taped to the chair all that time?”
“Oh, I was at first, but I have a cutting device in my watch. I had the tape cut away by your fourth karate kick.”
“You bastard. Why did you let me go through all that if you could have helped me?”
“You kidding? And miss a show like that?”
“I repeat myself. You bastard.” Her second rebuke trailed off with indifference, her mind already working on the next problem. She scanned the detritus that remained of the room, finally spotting a purse. Picking it up, she began going though it, casting out its contents piece by piece.
She pulled out a pistol. “I guess they were confident in their abilities in martial arts. They would have been better off drawing the gun on me.”
"Who would have gotten them off on the murder one charges with you in the cemetary?"
She pulled out a wallet, opened it up and looked at the ID. “Care to know what Candy’s last name is?”
“Not really. Let's just keep it as a one night stand.”
“Fine. But this ID here," she flipped over the wallet, "is quite interesting. Candy is an undercover agent.”
“FBI?”
“Department of Education.”