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ACT 4
“You just stroll in here and start getting’ chummy… I gotta tell ya’, sister, I don’t like being behind the eight-ball, see? How do I know you ain’t some boozehound bindlestiff with a bulge, tryin’ to bunco me with the bum’s rush?”
She seemed to be jake with the idea, but she didn’t make a move. This Jane was giving me a look that said she wanted to jaw but she was lousy with Jones and wanted to make me her mark. Well, my dance card was full and I wasn’t about to go out on the roof with some broad freaked on Muggles.
“You been snortin’ the nose-candy?” I backed off and picked up my pack of puffers, one for her and one for me, but I never turned my back on this looker.
I offered her the cylinder of sin and she glommed it like a junkie on a hash-pipe. Drawing deeply, she blew smoke all over my face, letting me know she wasn’t going to sing to anybody, especially not some two-bit Shamus.
Slowly, she crossed her legs, like she had class. “Who wants to know?” was all she said, her eyeslits assuming that dreamy look kids and crackheads get when they’re just about to pass out.
There was no point in re-hashing who I was. If she didn’t know by now, my attempts at educating her would do no more good than trying to teach a seal to play the zither. I was done playing the shill. Time for doing the crab-apple two-step was over… she was going to give me her name or else!
“I’ll tell you who wants to know… the guy who’s going straight to the blower and let the coppers know that I’m being rousted by a roundheel Redhot ripe on reefer… that’s who wants to know. For all I know, you’re some punk Proskirt waiting to pump metal into my puss!”
“Whatsamatter, Snooper, no grapes? I thought you were jake. I’ve tipped my hand to you, already. How many snow-birds have you seen who’d be on the square? If I were going to string you out or squirt metal, I’d have already stung you, Sugar. So jump down off that high-horse and maybe you and I can talk spinach. You like spondulix, don’t you, Sleuthie? You want a name? Okay, I’ll give you a name, but first, get me a pencil… I need to do some ciphering.”
Then, she paused. She was a cool one, all right. After she took another long pull on her cigarette, her words cut me like a sharp knife cuts through something soft; maybe room-temperature butter or bread with creamy peanut butter and marmalade spread thinly across it. “Either that or go call your pals at the precinct… the same mugs who don’t think you’re worthy to tote a real badge.”
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