Bridegoon
The bell over the door jingled, advertising the fact that someone had entered the building.
“Right with you!” Conrad yelled from his back office, cursing Debbie under his breath. Debbie was the receptionist, and she was sick again—pushing fifty and coming apart like a lemon-toned Dodge Aspen. Conrad slammed the filing cabinet shut, stubbed out his cigarette, and walked heavily down the short, linoleum-tiled hall. He halted briefly at Ovide’s open door. “Doin’ anything besides trolling for porn?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer.