“Well,” said the girl, “are you going to beat it or are you going to stick around here bothering us all evening? There hasn’t anybody registered a complaint against me in here.”
“Naw,” said O’Donnell, “they ain’t, but you want to watch your step or they will.”
“All right,” said the girl, “run along and sell your papers.” And she turned again to Jimmy, and as though utterly unconscious of the presence of the police officer, she remarked, “That big stiff gives me a pain. He’s the original Buttinsky Kid.”
O’Donnell flushed. “Watch your step, young lady,” he said as he turned and walked away.
“I thought,” said Jimmy, “that it was the customary practise to attempt to mollify the guardians of the law.”
“Mollify nothing,” returned the girl. “None of these big bruisers knows what decency is, and if you’re decent to them they think you’re afraid of them. When they got something on you you got to be nice, but when they haven’t, tell them where they get off. I knew he wouldn’t pinch me; he’s got nothing to pinch me for, and he’d have been out of luck if he had, for there hasn’t one of them got anything on me.”
“But won’t he have it in for you?” asked Jimmy.
“Sure, he will,” said the girl. “He’s got it in for everybody. That’s what being a policeman does to a man. Say, most of these guys hate themselves. I tell you, though,” she said presently and more seriously, “I’m sorry on your account. These dicks never forget a face. He’s got you catalogued and filed away in what he calls his brain alongside of a dip and—a”—she hesitated—“a girl like me, and no matter how high up you ever get if your foot slips up will bob O’Donnell with these two facts.”
“I’m not worrying,” said Jimmy. “I don’t intend to let my foot slip in his direction.”
“I hope not,” said the girl.