She walked in--your mother, that is, and I knew she was trouble from the start. Her elephantine gams, her slightly crossed eyes, her flaring nostrils--everything pointed to a dame in trouble; in trouble from her own loose doing.
Your mom pooled herself into the chair in front of my bare desk, and laid out a sob story about some man who done her wrong. I couldn't imagine a man who had done her right.
Everything about this dame, your mom, spelled trouble. She laid out her story, I agreed to take the case, and as she left, in a miniskirt 3 sizes too small and 20 years too young for her, I suddenly flashed on a sign outside a Korean restaurant I had walked by on 21st Avenue.
Parking in The Rear.