The only thing better than complaining about the bitter cold of winter was complaining about the endless heat of summer.
Something is Blooming By D.I. Jolly
“You’re here, Mr. Jones, because a woman in a red dress told you to be here. Because she cried in your office and then offered you a lot of money and sweet sorrowful lies. The same reason you do everything.”
Why Not?
This was tropical, the kind of heat that filled a room and hung on your shoulders like a hot wet blanket. The kind of heat that feels like drowning if you breathed too deeply. The kind of heat that Jones P.I. hated most.