I couldn’t see Claire Bushnell’s facial expression, but the tone of her voice was perfect. She was a darned good little actress. Thinking back on the smooth manner in which she’d smeared lipstick on the ends of my cigarette stubs, I began to wonder just how much experience our client had had in the art of deception.
“We want you to make that cheque good,” Bertha said.
“But the cheque is good, Mrs. Cool.”
“The bank says it isn’t.”
“Well, I’ll take that up with the bank.”
“I don’t give a damn who you take it up with or what you have to say,” Bertha said vehemently, “but before I leave, I want something that’ll balance that two-hundred-dollar red-ink entry on our bank account, because I deposited your cheque in good faith.”
“Well, of course I... if the person who gave me the cheque... well... that would leave me in a position where I’d be temporarily financially embarrassed.”
“You will be embarrassed in a lot more ways than that if you don’t meet that cheque,” Bertha Cool said grimly.
“But I’m sorry, Mrs. Cool, I haven’t a thing.”
“The hell you haven’t.”