Pulp Diction: Part 4

Here's the conclusion to John McIntyre's stirring grammar noir. We're not sure we're able to handle its sexy, sexy plot twists this early in the morning. English muffin, anyone?

Pulp Diction 4: The Dark Tower

The Amtrak from Baltimore to New York was only ninety minutes late to Penn Station, and the sun was setting as Fogarty and I crept up on AP Stylebook Headquarters.

“We’re in luck,” I whispered. “They haven’t lowered the portcullis yet.”

“But there’s a guard,” she said.

“Maybe you could distract that slab of brawn while I slip past.”

“Leave it to me.” She loosened two buttons on her blouse and walked up to the muscle. His head turned; I slipped past. A minute later, after a dull thud and a splash, Fogarty was beside me.

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