Cora sneered. “That’s her trouble, Ernie. She does like it.”
George was listening to this conversation and not understanding a word of it. He wished Little Ernie would go away. He was so repulsive that he embarrassed George.
“Believe she does,” Little Ernie agreed thoughtfully. “You’re a smart gel, Cora. Pity you don’t get wise. I could fix you up in no time. Think of it! A flat of your own, ’undred smackers a week, and a dawg if you wanted one.”
The barmaid planked down the three double whiskies, and Little Ernie parted with a pound.
“Gimme twenty Players and keep the change, ducks,” he said. He turned back to Cora. “Well, I suppose you know what’s good for you,” he went on. “Only if you ever change your mind, give us a ring.” He picked up his whisky. “Well, ’ere’s to better days.” He drank half the whisky, sighed and rested his small foot on the brass rail. “What ’ave you been doing to yourself?” he said, eyeing Cora. “You look or] right; a proper knockout.”
“My new valet,” Cora said, nodding at George. “He washed my pretty clothes and gave me a shampoo.”
Little Ernie stared at George blankly
George turned scarlet under the hitter, green eyes.
“Well, well,” Little Ernie said. “Fancy that.” He picked his nose and moved restlessly. “Hmm, well, well.” He seemed at a loss for words.
“He’s not a cissy,” Cora said, glancing at George as if he were a stranger. “He’s a tough guy, and when I say tough, I mean tough. He was Frank Kelly’s gunman.”