I took the notecase from my pocket, took out one of my business cards and handed it to her.
She read it, “Coot & Lam Private Detectives, Presented by Donald Lam.”
She started to get to her feet.
“Take it easy,” I said. “It’s purely coincidental.”
“What is?”
I said. “It’s Saturday afternoon. I’d finished the last job I was working on and sat down to read the racing news before I went out to dinner. I’m unmarried, unattached, and there’s nothing romantic about my job. It’s a business. I’ve never seen you before, and, as far as I know, I don’t think we have a client that has either. No one’s paying for this and I’m not sending in any report on you. You wanted an escort and you’re the one who picked a detective. I didn’t even give you the eye.”
“You looked — at my legs.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Who’s this Cool?” she asked.
“Bertha Cool,” I said.