If he hadn’t known better, Detective Turnbuckle could have imagined that the building was centered along a fault line and that the whole of the Eastern seaboard was being rocked by a category 6 earthquake, or perhaps Godzilla had taken a notion to swim the Atlantic in search of some steamed crabs. The framed citations and sensitivity posters along the baby shit green walls vibrated in an orgiastic rhythm as Detective LaMotta bounded down the remaining stairs and skidded to a halt, just inches before knocking Turnbuckle down like a solitary bowling pin. The analogy was an apt one. Just as Turnbuckle’s lopsided anatomy could be seen to resemble the classic Maryland gift to indoor sport, the Duckpin, so too could Detective Tinky LaMotta’s physiognomy be compared to a bowling ball, albeit perched atop dainty sized 3 women’s feet. How these tiny Ferragamo clad tootsies could possibly support the prodigious girth that was Tinky LaMotta atop their three inch heels, let alone propel it through the known universe was a question to challenge even Einstein’s intellect.
In a cacophony the sonic equivalent of a gamelan orchestra mating with a box of shattered Christmas ornaments, Tinky wheezed past JC and pirouetted into the corridor. Her five foot, two hundred and three pound frame was awash in raw banana colored silk, every ounce of womanly curve beckoning closer visual inspection, every inch threatening to burst forth from the frilly foundation garments that held this mass of quivering femininity in check. A plethora of bracelets, bangles, baubles, earrings, brooches, pins, rings, doodads, gegaws and gimcracks guaranteed that Detective LaMotta would never get the jump on any suspect whose hearing was intact. Combined with the geyser of jet black hair that erupted from her head, the inch long false ebony eyelashes and lipstick that would put a fire engine to shame, it was also a sure bet that Tinky would not be on the current rotation for undercover assignments any time in the immediate future.
The tsunami of yellow draped flesh comes to a halt against Turnbuckle’s elbow, recovering a bit of equilibrium, the windchime of girlish accessories still echoing a gentle serenade in the hallway. The soft pillow of Tinky’s left double D pressed into his lower belly, her high baby voice coos up at him “Oh, Professor, fuck me………………..har, fuck me, this guy’s ride’s been spotted somewhere up in Baltimore. Jeeze, Johnny, you thinking ‘bout my tits again? Hgghhmweoffffsssttt!” LaMotta’s laugh comes from somewhere in the cat family, not quite a sneeze, but not quite tossing a hairball. Turnbuckle and LaMotta have worked together for years and Tinky takes delicious delight in teasing and torturing JC with a non-stop barrage of suggestion and innuendo. Her husband, a walking toothpick of a man, has often offered to sell her to Turnbuckle, firmly secure in the knowledge that her love for him is greater than a thousand flea market’s worth of costume jewelry.
“Phfffftttsss. No, seriously JC, we just got the call on that Honda, looks like it was spotted up on the east side of Baltimore. No word on exactly where it is now, but they’ve got an APB on it and if it’s still on the street we may get lucky on this one.”
LaMotta ground her ample hip into Turnbuckle’s thigh, the thin imitation leather purse holding her Heckler & Koch P2000 automatic grinding against his side.
“Guess we’ll have to save the fun and games for some other time, eh, Professor? Maybe you can show me your………clarinet?”
Tinky LaMotta let loose with another explosive imitation of furr balls in trajectory from a feline gymnast and wiggled her fingers in Turnbuckle’s direction.
“I’ll drive, John. My car’s faster and I know a wicked good shortcut. Might even save us enough time to get a coffee to go!”


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