“Why don’t you poke that fat boy in his pantry?” she asked.
Maybe the guy couldn’t speak anything but his own language, but how was I to know? The most unlikely people get educated these days.
“What do you want me to do?” I whispered. “Commit suicide?”
“You’re not going to let a pail of lard insult me?” Myra said, her eyes suddenly flashing.
“Didn’t you see what he did?” She pointed to the cigarette end that smouldered near her hand.
“That little thing?” I said, hastily. “Why, that was an accident. He didn’t mean anything. You pipe down. It’s dames like you who cause revolutions.”
Just then the thin Mexican came out of the shop. He edged round the fat party as if he were passing close to a black widow. Then he set two beers in front of us and faded back to the shop fast.
The fat party was smoking again and he took his cigarette out and flipped it once more. I had my hand over my glass as the smoking cigarette curled through the air, but it dropped into Myra’s glass.
I took her glass before she could say anything and gave her mine. “There you are, sweetheart, and for the love of Mike don’t make anything of it.”
Myra’s face scared me. She’d gone a little white and her eyes looked like those of a cat in the dark.