So, in my writing class, we were given a sentence, and asked to write something in ten minutes that was our impression of something in the romance or noir genre. It was about playing with style, and word choice, and how you deal with cliches because both genres have their cliches, right?

So, the phrase was “She was blond.”

After ten minutes of frantic typing, we stopped, and after a few people shared, she asked “Is it possible to take this sentence fragments and NOT, in some way, focus on the woman’s looks?” One guy had written a romance novel, complete with flowing locks of blond hair. A woman had written a cliched opening of a hardboiled detective drinking bad whiskey at his desk and a dame with gams and blond hair walked in. You get the idea.

I chose, um, a diferent tack. I blame Walter Mosley.

Ms. Guitierrez sat in the same chair she had a couple of months ago when we first met, but now things were different. When the short, squat, silver haired matron had first shown up, she was a ball of fire and anger, as she wanted to hire me to find dirt on her husband, who she was convinced was stepping out on her.

I did what she asked, Took the necessary photos, and paid a few past-due bills with the money she paid me. Adulterous men and their sloppy ways will keep us detectives in the black for a long time to come. But she was back today, wearing black and crying hysterically and blowing her nose with a handkerchief that looked like it had been through many nasal battles and lost them all. I shoved a box of tissue across my desk as she blubbered.

Turns out that “love of her life” hubby had been found lifeless in a trash heap about a week prior, and the cops were claiming underhandedness or don’t-give-a-shit-ness, and weren’t any closer to finding out who did it. So she was back to me.

She left, a few grand lighter, the picture of the new widow; sad and forlorn and lost. Man, remind me to never get involved with these guys out here.

Some time later, my assistant Danny comes up out of breath. I had sent him to get us coffee some time ago, when Ms. Gutierrez had gotten to my office as to give her a sense of privacy. Lucky for us, he not only got coffee, but a box of donuts. As he put those on my desk and collapsed into the still-warm chair Ms. Guitierrez had vacated, I asked him what the delay was.

“Man, Miss G,” he began, grabbing a donut and dunking it in his coffee. “Shit was wild down there. You didn’t hear the commotion up here?” My windows were normally open, but I guess I had forgotten to raise them. “Shit was WILD. I guess a couple of guys jumped this lady down there, and she was letting they asses HAVE IT. Kicking em in the nuts, swinging her old-lady purse like a fuckin’ mace. Whew! They ran off, but they gonna be hurt. Short lady too, didn’t look like she had it in her.”

“Funny,” I sat back, stirring in the sugar to my cup, “I had a lady leave here not long ago. I wonder if she saw it. SHort lady, you say?”

“Yeah. Short, built like a fireplug. Dressed in all black, like she was gonna put somebody in the GROUND today.”

A feeling of dread and wonder came over me. “All black, and short? White haired old lady?”

“Nah,” Danny garbled through a mouthful of coffee and donut. “She was blond.”