Sondra Von Kitten applied one last coat of Wine Divine and surveyed herself in the mirror. A vision in black leather smiled back. The agent paced, all nerves and darting glances. Sondra could tell that he was trying hard not to look at her cleavage, but it was kinda hard not to in this spectacular outfit.

“So tell me again what I have to do? And how much I’m getting paid?”

The suit sighed and repeated the instructions. She was to invite the senator to a private show and slip the chemical into his drink.

“Better make it scotch so the cyanide doesn’t show.”

“What’s cyanide?”

“A type of poison, Miss Von, er, Kitten. You’ll be paid handsomely. $50,000 to be exact. So we’re counting on you. The whole nation’s counting on you to get rid of this communist sympathizer.”

It was 1953 and the nation was gripped in the tight fist of the red scare. But the only red Sondra was concerned with was the hue of her lips and whether they showed off her pale skin to perfection.

“It’s a deal, Mister,” she said and smiled.