She giggled.
“If there’s one thing I like better than one etching it’s a set of etchings.” She got up and moved over to the whisky bottle. The way her hips rolled kept me pointing like a gun-dog.
“Let me freshen that,” she went on. “You’re not drinking.”
“It’s fresh enough. I’m beginning to get the idea there are things better to do besides drinking.”
“Are you? I thought perhaps you might.” She shot more liquor into her glass. She didn’t bother with the Whiterock this time.
“Who looks after Maureen during the day?” I asked as she made her way back to the settee.
“Nurse Fleming. You wouldn’t like her. She’s a man-hater.”
“She is?” She sat beside me, hip against hip. “Can she hear us?”
“It wouldn’t matter if she did, but she can’t. She’s in the left wing, overlooking the garages. They put Maureen there when she started to yell.”
That was exactly what I wanted to know.