I opened the Buick door, slid under the wheel and trod on the starter.
Myra was smoking, a brooding look on her face.
‘So we don’t touch Betillo?’ she said in a low, flat voice.
‘As it happened,’ I said, not looking at her, ‘he was telling the truth. Nick parted company with him at nine-thirty.’
‘And spent an hour with that awful, washed-out blonde,’ Myra said. ‘Lovely for him. I hope he enjoyed himself.’
I drove with exaggerated care up Monte Verde Avenue.
‘He’s risking his neck to keep it quiet,’ I said. ‘There’s that in his favour.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ Myra said, her voice unsteady. ‘You don’t have to make a case out for him. There wasn’t a damn thing I wouldn’t have done for him: not a thing. When he was in jail, I waited for him. When he came out, I was right on the doorstep. When he was short of money, and he was always short of money, I kept him going. I’ve been walking the floor all last night, worrying about him. And he has to cheat with a hustler like that in a sordid little room, and pay for it.’
‘You’re breaking my heart,’ I said. ‘Okay, so he cheated on you. So what? You don’t have to stand by him now. You’re free. There’re hundreds of men who’ll give you a good time. What are you worrying about?’
She swung round in her seat, catching her breath, her face tight with rage.