My entry in this year’s worst-first-line-of-a-novel contest

AKA the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest:

He was a gambler down on his luck; she was a hooker with a heart of gold—solid gold, in fact, which made her corpse (now nestled awkwardly between the spare tire and overstuffed suitcase in the trunk of his ’83 Impala) some 80 lbs heavier than was natural, and was, at this moment, among the foremost of his problems.