Her eyes lit up and she smiled. The bored, resigned expression vanished.
“Run along and tell Madam Durelli I want to see her,” I said.
She stared. “What’s the idea?” she demanded, her voice hardening. “Don’t you like me or something?”
“Can’t you earn yourself a little dough without sounding off? I’m offering it you the easy way. Take this and get Madam. Go on, beat it.”
She snatched the money, slipped it into the top of her stocking, went to the door.
“I thought you were a queer fish the moment I saw you,” she said. “Stick around. I’ll get her.”
I sat on the edge of the divan, lit a cigarette, waited.
Minutes dragged by, then I heard a step outside. The door opened and a big. middle-aged woman came in Her lean face was hard, her eyes jet-beads, and her blonde frizzy hair brittle through constant bleaching. She closed the door, leaned against it, raked me with her eyes.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked. Her voice was harsh and flat.
I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven.