“All kinds.”
She said, “You’re a rotten detective.”
I said, “You should know Bertha Cool. You have a lot in common.”
“I like that!” she flared. “Broad of beam — bulldog jaw—!”
“Mentally,” I said. “When it comes to judging my qualifications as a detective.”
She said, “You think I’m interested in the red-head with the grey eyes?”
“Yes.”
Her laugh was scornful. “Let’s get out of this dump. The only reason I wanted to come in here was because they told me I couldn’t. If you want to know it, I’ve had a heartbreak and had decided to get drunk. The man I was carrying the torch for turned out to be a rat, and the only other man I knew well enough to go out and get cock-eyed with would have felt I was trying to make him a second choice. I didn’t want him to do that because if I can wait a few weeks he’ll start coming around of his own accord and then I’m going to give him a break. I’ve been a little fool and the taste of my folly is as bitter in my mouth as a chicken liver when the gall bladder has been ruptured by a poor cook.”
“The trouble with you detectives is that you have to see murder cases lurking behind every lamp-post. When I found I had to have an escort, I thought you looked good. Now you bore me.”
“So you’re going out and get tight alone?” I asked.