“What is it you want?”
“The local constabulary,” I said. “Do you own a cop about six feet tall, forty years old, around two hundred and twenty, with black hair, grey eyes, a cleft chin, and a mole on his right cheek? He has the disposition of a camel and the execution of a mule. His name wouldn’t by any chance be Charlie, would it?”
“We don’t own one,” she said. “Our cops average about sixty to sixty-five. They’re appointed through political pull. They chew tobacco, are suspicious, and their chief duty is to drag in enough fines from out-of-town motorists to offset their salaries. Was it a cop who gave you the black eye, Donald?”
“I wouldn’t know. How about killing that ad in your paper?”
“It’s too late now. Here’s your mail.”
She took out a sack of letters tied with a heavy cord.
I said, “Good Lord, I suppose everyone in town wrote me.”
“There are only thirty-seven letters here,” she said. “That’s nothing at all. Blade ads get results, you know.”
I said, “I need a secretary — someone around twenty-two or twenty-three with brown eyes and brown hair, someone who smiles easily, not just a lip smile, but who throws her whole face into it.”
She said, “She’d have to be loyal to her employer, I suppose.”