The Case of the Terrified Tiger

She was a dame with high-voltage looks and an eroticbook contract. Her name was Tiger. No last name. Just Tiger. And she was in trouble.

It looked as if she had fallen back into character.
A few days later, Tiger, or maybe it was Eva, called me to find out where my story was.

She was at a garage in Jersey, she claimed, waiting for a garage mechanic to adjust the twin carbs on her vintage Alfa Romeo. She knew I had been asking her friends if they knew her given name, a rodentlike thing to do, she said. It was proof that I had no balls, she said.

Maybe she was right.

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