Pembroke returned to the hotel. Going to the bar, he recognized one of the Elena Mia's paying passengers. He was a short, rectangular little man in his fifties named Spencer. He sat in a booth with three young women, all lovely, all effusive. The topic of the conversation turned out to be precisely what Pembroke had predicted.
"Well, Louisa, I'd say your only fault is the way you keep wigglin' your shoulders up 'n' down. Why'n'sha try holdin' 'em straight?"
"I thought it made me look sexy," the redhead said petulantly.
"Just be yourself, gal," Spencer drawled, jabbing her intimately with a fat elbow, "and you'll qualify."
"Me, me," the blonde with a feather cut was insisting. "What is wrong with me?"
"You're perfect, sweetheart," he told her, taking her hand.
"Ah, come on," she pleaded. "Everyone tells me I chew gum with my mouth open. Don't you hate that?"
"Naw, that's part of your charm," Spencer assured her.
"How 'bout me, sugar," asked the girl with the coal black hair.