Rourke squinted at him suspiciously. “I can think of only one sort of thing.”
“You’ve got a dirty mind,” Shayne accused.
“Need it to cope with you. Blond or brunette?”
“I don’t know. Ask me about her legs. They’re stumpy.”
“Damn it, Mike, it’s after midnight. You’re not going out frailing at this hour?”
“The date,” said Shayne, “is for two o’clock sharp. She has to slip out after the rest of them go to sleep.”
Rourke shook his head sadly. He tilted his glass, and a tear ran down his lean cheek into the Scotch. “It’s not right to kid about something like that, Mike. You had me hating your guts once tonight. Don’t pull another stunt like that.”
Shayne laughed shortly. “This gal’s the kind that has nine lives,” he said lightly. “Throttling wouldn’t kill her.” He got up and paced back and forth, ruffling his coarse red hair. “Thank God my morals are elastic enough to meet an emergency. How is a man to get information out of a frenetic maiden except—”
“Don’t do it, Mike,” Rourke pleaded. He slopped some whisky over his tie as he emptied his glass. “Let me go in your place. I’m not married. Nobody cares what I do.”
“You’re drunk,” Shayne said gravely. “You wouldn’t do either of us any good.”