“Where was she?” I asked.
“Taking tickets in a picture show. She certainly is class, Myrtle is. I looked at her a couple of times, and I said, ‘Say, your face is familiar. Ain’t your mother’s name Myrtle?’
“She placed me then and said, ‘I’m Myrtle,’ and I like to fell over backward. She’s married now. Got a kid ten years old, she told me. Of course, they arrange the lights in those little ticket booths so the girls look pretty, but I’m telling you, Mr. — what’d you say your name was?”
“Lam. Donald Lam.”
“That’s right. Well, I’m telling you, Lam, that girl didn’t look a day older than she did when she was working for me, and say, talking about legs — there was the girl that had legs. Say, Mister, if I could get a dozen girls like Myrtle and open up a place — but it wouldn’t do no good. The coin just ain’t in circulation. The business ain’t here. It’s just like I told you. People are putting in all their time trying to get some of the other fellow’s dough away from him. There just ain’t any stream of circulating cash where you can throw in a bucket and pull out the dough.”
“Where did you say this picture show was?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s up on Market Street, four or five doors below the Twin Peaks Hotel.”
“What,” I asked, “does she look like?”
“Pretty as a picture,” he said. “Her hair used to be a lighter shade of red than it is now. She’s got it this kind of a dark brown colour they’re using so much, but she’s got that peaches-and-cream complexion, and her eyes are clear blue. God, how that girl could look innocent! And legs! Say, I’m telling you, Mister — what’d you say your name was?”
“Lam. Donald Lam.”