“You’re a lecherous old goat,” Sellers said.
“I guess I am, for a fact,” the attendant admitted sorrowfully.
“Why don’t you grow up?”
“Hell, that’s the trouble, I have grown up. The missus is like an old shoe. I wouldn’t trade her for anything. She’s got a form like a sack of potatoes, but she cook’s like nobody’s business. She grabs the pay-check as soon as I get it and she bawls hell out of me every so often. But — hang it, I don’t know, Sergeant, a man needs a little inspiration once in a while. Just watching a cute little trick like that, as supple as the greased cable out of a speedometer — damn me, it wasn’t so long ago that the wife was quite a dancer. We used to go out and hoof it…”
“Not very long ago,” Sellers said impatiently. “Thirty-five years is all.”
The attendant furrowed his forehead. “It ain’t as bad as that — twenty-two — twenty-three — about twenty-four years, and…”
“Okay,” Sellers said, “save it. Get back in the car, Lam.”
Sellers was thinking all the way back to the office. He let me out in front of the office building and said. “This is where I came in. Go on and resume the even tempo of your life, and remember I’m keeping an eye on you. If you try to pull a fast one on this, I’ll break you so fast it’ll make your head swim. I don’t care what Bertha says, I’ll bust you.”
I yawned, and said, “I hear that stuff so much it sounds like a radio commercial. Why don’t you get someone to put it to music so you could be like the smart boys on the radio and have a singing commercial. It wouldn’t tire the audience.”
Sellers glared at me, slammed the door of the police car and went away from there fast.