She was quite disinterested.
“Don’t you care?”
“Christ,” she said, “why should I get any gray hairs? If he makes a better deal, okay. If he doesn’t, I won’t starve. I’m pretty lucky. I’ve got a beautiful puss and a beautiful body, and not too much talent and goddam little sense. I’m never going to be a Bette Davis, and I’m not going to screw up my life trying to be a prima donna. I can eat. And that means plenty.”
“You don’t care about seeing Jack Groom get ahead?”
“Why the hell should I? He can take care of himself. Don’t let that spiritual-hammy act of his fool you. He knows all the angles. He can play politics and connive and lick boots in the best company.”
“I asked you last night,” said the Saint, “but you wouldn’t tell me. So I was still wondering if there was anything personal between you.”
It was amazing that such a face could be so passionless and detached.
“He took me to Palm Springs one weekend, and he was lousy. He’ll never have the nerve to try it again. But I’ve been a good business proposition, and that’s a lot in his life.”
Simon tapped his cigarette over the ashtray.
“Then — you wouldn’t kill anyone on account of him?”