She stopped outside a door next to a small all-night eating-house. Dimly I could see a little brass plate screwed on to the door. I struck a match and read, ‘Andree Kersh’.
“My, my,” I said, “so you put your name on the door.”
“Of course, darlin’.” She fumbled with her bag and found a key. “When you come again, I want you to find me easily.”
I thought this dame was mighty good at kidding herself. The next time I called on her, she’d greet me with a flat-iron.
I followed her up a short flight of stairs, past the lobby of the eating-house, up some more stairs, past two doors, also with brass plates, and up some more stairs still.
She came to a small landing and again opened a door. “Here we are, darlin’,” she said.
I stepped into the room. One of those small joints. You open the front door and step into a double bed. The room was all bed.
I wedged myself round her and got to the far end of the room. The bed divided us. I had to admit she’d taken a lot of trouble in fixing the room. It had a lot of neat little gadgets, and some of the pictures she’d got hanging on the wall even made me take a look.
I said, “You’ve got a swell apartment here, ain’t you?”
She pulled off her hat and fluffed up her blonde hair. We took a look at each other. I’ll give her this. She hadn’t the usual hard, gimme face of the streetwalker. She would have been quite a looker if her chin wasn’t so pointed. That rather hardened her face, but for the rough work she was all right. If I hadn’t been sitting with Mardi for an hour, I guess this floozie would have interested me more than somewhat.