The sound of motion caused me to look up.
Tom Durham was swinging a club. I got my head out of the way and grabbed for his foot. The club numbed my shoulder. Durham went down on the floor with me, and we went whirling around, over and over.
Amelia Jasper came scrambling out from under the bed and grabbed a fistful of my hair. The manager of the cocktail lounge kicked me, and then Bertha hit the scrimmage like a battering ram.
I heard Sergeant Sellers yell, “Break it up! Break it up there!” Then I saw Bertha’s muscular leg, felt her toe whiz past my head, smack into Durham’s jaw and heard Bertha saying angrily, “That’s the worst of these modern styles. You have to fumble around with a couple of yards of skirt every time you want to kick some son-of-a-bitch in the face!”
Seventeen
Bertha Cool surveyed me distastefully as I walked into the office.
“Where the hell have you been.”
“Tying up a few loose threads,” I said.
“Loose threads, my eye!” Bertha stormed. “You’ve been out with that Bushnell wench, billing and cooing. She thinks you’re a hero.”
I said, “I thought it would make things better for Sellers if I wasn’t available for an interview with the press.”