Gomez, snarling, slapped her face, got out of bed. “Come into the other room where we can talk,” he said. “Women drive me nuts.”
I looked at the telephone by the bed, shook my head. “This blue-eyed twist might get ideas,” I said. “I’ll keep you both where I can watch you.”
Gomez jerked the extension plug from the wall, picked up the telephone and walked across the room.
“I want to talk,” he said. “She wants to fight. We’ll get nowhere if she’s in on the conversation.”
“I’ll make you pay for this!” Lois stormed. “You can’t talk to me like this, you—you gigolo!”
He stepped to the bed.
“Shut up!” he snarled.
“Well, come on,” I said impatiently. “If you want to talk, let’s talk.”
He glared at Lois for a moment, then joined me at the door. Lois started warming up the room with some fancy cursing, but we shut the door and left her to it.
Gomez sat down in an easy chair in the outer room. He ran his fingers through his long oily hair, eyed me the way a snake eyes its first meal after hibernation, said, “Just where do you figure in all this?”