The Casebook of Justice and Dixon.

Murder in the Fiesta Lounge, Part 1

The Name's Dixon.

Trixie Dixon Girl Detective

From the moment I laid eyes on Michael Patrick Mulligan O.D. The name's Dixon. Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

From the moment I laid eyes on Michael Patrick Mulligan O'Day, I knew that I would shoot him.

It was just a question of where, when, and how many times.

Perhaps that is a tad glib, I apologize for that.

You may say that the only shot worth taking is center mass and you wouldn't be wrong. It is the high percentage shot, the one least likely to afford your target a chance

to take a shot of their own. Miss Dixon understands all of that, my dear ones. Really, she does.

The fact is, sometimes a girl likes to watch the people she shoots

ride around and suffer a bit rather than just drop clean dead. That's all right, isn't it?

If I bat my long lashes just so, it might even be adorable, and you know it. And if anyone

deserved to spend a couple of long, slow hours

with a gut shot, it was Michael Patrick Mulligan O'Day. Of course, a short-barreled handgun didn't

always deposit its lead bouquets precisely where a girl detective directed them anyway. Even when she

was and is a crack shot, and yes I am shot up.

So there was always a certain element of chance when one was being shot,

even if one deserved the aforementioned gut shot as badly as did Michael Patrick Mulligan O'Day.

Also, not to be pedantic, but when I said where, it is possible that I meant in the geographic

rather than the anatomical sense.

I don't suppose that occurred to you, and to tell you the God's honest truth, even if I had

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