Fanquist still lay in bed, her flaxen hair spread out on the pillow, a cigarette in her lips. She watched Roxy sleepily.
“A blue-nosed bishop is puttin’ up a squawk about the number of unfortunate women he’s been runnin’ into lately on Main Street. Says it’s a disgrace,” Roxy announced with a grin. “What you think, Fan?”
“Search me,” she said with a Southern drawl. “Maybe he forgot his dough, or maybe he’s got beyond it.”
Roxy shook his head. “Those guys never get beyond it,” he said. “I guess he hadn’t any dough. And listen to this, Fan; Some guy found his wife two-timin’ an’ set about her with a meat-cleaver. There’s a picture of the guy here… wantta see it?”
Fanquist shook her head. “I don’t like horrors… lay off it, will you?”
Roxy tossed the paper on the floor. He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. “Got any ideas for today?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m havin’ a finger-wave.” Fanquist stretched her arms and yawned. “Ten o’clock. It’ll take the best part of two hours… meet me for lunch?”
Roxy nodded. “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at Verotti’s.”
A tap came at the door. Roxy looked over at Fanquist, his eyebrows raised. Then he put his hand inside his coat and loosened the gun in its holster. “Who is it?” he asked.
“It’s okay,” came Miss Benbow’s hoarse whisper.