I hesitated.
She put her hand on my arm, said, “It’s my party, you know.”
“Will you tell me all about your broken romance?”
“Every word,” she said. “I’ll withhold nothing. I’ll be like the girl in the Arabian Nights who told stories to keep her lord and master amused. I lost my temper and shot off my big mouth about you being a lousy detective and now your professional pride is insulted. But I need an escort and if I let you go, the other one may be terrible. You’re nice as an individual. It’s only your detective ability that has a slight odour. So I’ll tell you about my shattered romance and broken heart. Do you want the spicy, intimate version of my romantic entanglement, or would you prefer the psychological reaction motif?”
“The psychological reaction motif,” I said.
“Good heavens, you are different!” she exclaimed.
“I’m not. You are. Remember, it’s entertainment. I was going to a movie but this should be more fun.”
“More romantic,” she promised. “You see, I won’t have to submit the script to the Breen office. The movies would.”
We went a block and a half to another cocktail bar. These cocktails had liquor in them. Lucille drew on her imagination for a story of lurid romance. The details didn’t always fit here and there, but she took great pains to let me know that, when she went, she went all the way.
She was a nice girl with a good figure, swell eyes, and after the second cocktail I could see she had a plan.