A. Fair - The Bigger They Come

‘Sandra,’ I said, ‘seems to be an opportunist.’

‘She is. How about that whisky, Donald?’

‘How about the money?’

She reached for her purse.

‘You flew down alone?’ I asked as she fumbled through some loose bills.

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘When Bertha Cool travels she has someone with her to pay expenses — unless there’s been a damn fat retainer paid. No, Donald, I brought my client along. She’s in the next room. She doesn’t know you’re here yet. She’s been talking about you a lot — all the way down. My God, there I was, sick as a horse, and she was talking about you.’

‘You mean Sandra?’ I asked.

‘Hell, no,’ she said, jerking her head toward the door to the communicating room. ‘Sandra will fall for you when you’re there, but she forgets you when you’re away.’

I walked across and opened the door. Alma Hunter was sitting in a chair near the window. When she saw me, she got to her feet and stood staring at me with starry eyes and crimson half-parted lips.

‘Here’s the money for the whisky, Donald,’ Mrs. Cool called. ‘Don’t get mushy, my pet. God knows you haven’t a God damn cent to get married on, and you owe me ninety-five cents for taxi fare.’

I walked on into Alma’s room and kicked the communicating door shut with my heel.