She looked at me pretty straight. “You know, Mr. Mason, I don’t like this at all. You said you wanted to talk business. My business is to do with Fabrics. Then you start some story about a wretched gunman instead. Is this a cheap joke?”
I found I was getting flustered. This certainly was something new to me.
I said feebly, “This ain’t a joke. I’m dead serious, but I’m in a spot….”
She pushed back her chair. “In that case, Mr. Mason,” she said coldly, “I don’t think we need waste any more time.”
Another dame would have got herself smacked, but this baby had me jumping through hoops. I said urgently, “Don’t go, don’t walk out on me… I’ll come clean on this.”
She shook her head. “No… I think I’d better go.” But she made no move. Maybe she was the cutest of them all, but she was woman enough to be curious. I took a look over my shoulder to see how close the next table was, satisfied myself that no one could hear me, and dived right into the story. I gave it to her from the first gong to the last.
She sat with her hands in her lap, her eyes wide, her lips parted. I gave her the story with everything I had, and I held her to the last word. Sitting there, I thought she looked swell.
“Apart from the ten grand,” I concluded, “this frame-up interests me. It would make a swell story, and I always like to think the right guy gets the right punishment.”
She said, in barely a whisper, “But… but… Mr. Spencer… no, I can’t believe that….”
I shrugged. “I’ve never met the guy. At the same time, why the hell does he have a gunman? Why should a guy in Fabrics be mixed up with a thug like Katz?”