Bertha looked up over her shoulder, her little beady eyes glittering angrily. “What the hell,” she said, “Frank Sellers has been camped on my doorstep. He showed up shortly after you telephoned. What the hell’s the idea?”
I said, “I gave the girl my card.”
“So I gathered,” Bertha said. “God, but you’re dumb, for a detective.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Lots of things do when you’re dealing with a babe on a Saturday night.”
I said, “I can’t tell whether she deliberately left it as a cross, or whether it was an accident.”
“Does it make any difference?” Bertha asked.
“It might.”
Bertha said, “You should get yourself a good name to go philandering under. Just because you’re not married you think you can pass out cards. My God, I don’t know why it is that a brainy little guy like you can be so damned naïve.”
I waited until she had sputtered herself into silence, then said, “I want to get something on the Cabanita Club.”