You know Charlie, I could have won the Olympics, the O-fucking-lympics," Monica swore. "God damn these useless legs." She took another gulp of her scotch. Charles shook his head at her. He was her chauffeur, assistant, and best friend. She was on her fifth scotch now and Charles deemed it to be enough.
"Midnight, madam, time for bed," he said in his crisp English accent. He began to steer her wheelchair into her bedroom.
"It's miss thank you. I'm only 32. I'm not a madam yet, Charlie," she snapped, slurring slightly.
"Yes, miss, and call me Charles," he responded. He helped her into bed and then left her small, one-person apartment, pausing a moment to look out the window at the rather picturesque view of yellow, pink, and blue apartments across her street that were so characteristic of San Francisco.
Monica was rudely awakened at eight in the morning by the telephone. As she floundered around in her sheets and blankets trying to disentangle herself, she could feel the hangover destroying her physical, mental, and emotional well-being. She finally got to the phone.
"What!" she snapped.
"Hangover?" a wry voice asked on the other side.
"Oh, what the hell do you want, Kevin?" She knew what the SFPD detective
wanted. He needed help on a case. That was the only time he ever called her, when the
incapable police force could not do its job and needed her expertise.
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