I found her disturbing. I don’t know what it was, but her metallic hair, gleaming in the sun, the white column of her throat, the curve of her figure under the blood-red shirt, her small finely boned hands and the courage of her mouth and chin got me. I found myself groping back into the past to remember any one woman I had known who looked as good as this kid. Pale ghosts paraded in my mind, but none of them clicked.
“Look, sister…” I said.
“Just a minute,” she interrupted, facing me. “Would you mind not calling me sister? I’m no sister of yours. I’ve got a name. Myra Shumway. We met. Remember?”
“You’d’ve been a better girl if you’d been my sister,” I said grimly.
“All you tough guys think of is violence. That’s your only reply to a woman, isn’t it?”
“What do you expect, when they feed us hot tongue and cold shoulder?” I asked grinning.
“Besides, a little violence works.”
“Get me out of this,” she said, suddenly turning so that she was close to me. “You can do it. I don’t want to go on with it.”
I thought, ‘If you knew half what I’ve got lined up for you sweetheart, you’d be climbing trees.’ But, I just shrugged. “Don’t let’s go over that again,” I said. “You’ll thank me in a week or so. You’re not scared of this Quinn guy, are you?”
“I’m not scared of anything on two legs…” she began.