She interrupted me. “And it serves you right. Don’t try to charge that as an expense. Whenever you do any gambling, it’s on your own. I’m not interested. You’re—”
“And then,” I interrupted, “I won three nickels with the last play.”
“And then shot the three nickels I suppose,” Bertha said sarcastically.
“And the last nickel,” I said, “hit the jackpot.”
There was silence. Then Bertha’s silky voice said, “How much did you win, lover?”
“I don’t know, because about that time the law came down on me. I’m supposed to have been milking the slot machines.”
“Now you listen to me, Donald Lam. You’re supposed to have brains. If you haven’t got brains enough to keep yourself out of jail, you’re fired. Can’t you realize that we have to work fast?”
“Sure,” I said, and hung up.
The manager looked at Lieutenant Kleinsmidt. “How does the description check, Bill?”
“It checks. She says he’s a pint-sized parcel of dynamite with the nerve of a prize fighter and a punch that wouldn’t jar a fly loose from a syrup jug — but he’s always trying.”