“What’s the matter with her?” I asked, hopefully pushing my empty glass forward. “Let’s be matey, Martha. One drink is no use to big, strong boys like you and me.”
Mrs. Bendix sniggered, hoisted up the bottle again and poured.
“What’s the matter with her?” I repeated, when we had saluted each other.
“She’s no good,” Mrs. Bendix said, and scowled. “Just a goddamn lazy bum.”
“We haven’t got our lines crossed, have we? I’m talking about Janet Crosby’s personal maid.”
“So am I,” Mrs. Bendix said, and fed three more coffee beans into her mouth. “Eudora Drew. That’s her name. She’s gone haywire. I wanted a good personal maid for Mrs. Randolph Playfair. I took the trouble to contact Drew to tell her I could fix her up. She told me to jump in a cesspit. That’s a nice way to talk, isn’t it? She said she wasn’t ever going to do any more work, and if one cesspit wouldn’t hold me anyone would dig me another if I told them what it was for.” Mrs. Bendix brooded darkly at the insult. “At one time I thought she was a good, smart girl. Just shows you can’t trust them further than you can throw them, doesn’t it? It’s my bet she’s living on some man. She’s got a bungalow in Coral Gables, and lives in style.”
“Where in Coral Gables?”
“On Mount Verde Avenue. You interested?”
“I might be. What happened to the rest of the staff?”
“I fixed them all up. I can give you addresses if you want them.”