“Listen,” she said evenly. “You pulled me out of a jam, but you did it because of someone else and not because of me. You an’ me have had a little trouble before. I guess we don’t mean anythin’ to each other. Well, if you’re extending sympathy, you can stick it on the wall. I can manage okay without you handing out any grease; get all that?”
Talking with a dame like her was like playing ‘handles’ with a rattlesnake. There was only one way to talk to a dame who gets like that, so I handed out some of her own stuff.
“I’m not handing you any grease, sister,” I said, “I haven’t any grease to pass on to your type. I save it for those who can appreciate it. I want to know your story. I’ve got myself mixed up in this business, and I guess, as I pulled you out of a jam, I’m entitled to know something about it. So come off your high horse, cut out the dramatics, and shoot.”
She turned back to the fire. “I ain’t talkin’,” she said.
I got up.
“Okay,” I said. “Beat it… go on… get the hell out of here… blow!”
She stood up. Her face startled and her eyes wide.
“If you ain’t outside quick, I’ll call the cops an’ hand you over. You can guess what the charge’ll be… an’ I’ll make it stick.”
She saw she hadn’t a leg to stand on. Her sullen face cleared and she laughed. She could look mighty nice when she laughed. “Okay, darlin’,” she said, “I’ll be good.”
“You see how it is,” I said, moving back to the fire, “I’ve got you where it’s crisp.”