This is from the detective story I am working on, A Night at the Opera. The Mayor had a relationship with the deceased Diva and the story has his Page Six of the New York Post. (Not for real, I don’t want the New York Post to panic). 🙂
He didn’t hear his wife Sarah come in. He only knew something was up when the open page of the New York Post appeared in front of his eyes, dropped on his plate. The opposite page fell on the cream cheese and lox sticking out of the hole in the bagel, getting fish oil and cream cheese on it helped when a fist smashed the newspaper, ruining breakfast for Hizzoner.
“How was the opera?” She asked dripping sarcasm, not honey.
“You know it wasn’t good, the Diva died.”
“Yeah, your Diva.”
“Shame isn’t it?”
“Only cause ya got caught, Mister High and Mighty. Deny it, if you can. You think you can act like that French guy Dominique Strauss-Kahn? The only thing cultured about you is yogurt in your gut. Give it a rest, you grew up with me in Canarsie!”
Sarah’s Brooklyn accent became more pronounced with each angry word.
“I considered Ms. Ivanova a friend.”
“I’ll be you did. What was it? The sultry Slavic accent? The novelty?”
“I’ll deny everything.”
“Even if you weren’t fuckin’ her perception’s everything. As far as the city’s concerened, you did it! You humiliated me! OK smartass, now for the million dollar question. Did you have her killed? Did you know this story was coming down the pike?”
“The answer to both your questions, is an emphatic NO!”
“Well, I don’t believe ya and I’m goin’ out. Goodbye!