"You sure the cops ain't on your trail, bud?"
"No, but if Luigi doesn't get me, it's only a matter of time until they will be. After all, anyone such as her, disappearing—"
"I thought she was out of town."
"No. Just out of this world."
Them words take on a sinister-like significance, the way he says them. Then he gets up, sober-lookin' in spite of them Plutonian stingers that would of disintegrated even a Martian.
"If you wouldn't mind running the risk, I'd appreciate your company. I'm going back to my place now. The—ah—refreshments here lack the needed stimulation. I have a much better supply home."
Now, maybe it was that stinger and the Uranus delight, because under ordinary circumstances I would turn down such a invite from a guy who is no doubt a no-orbit meteorite. But then I realize—he's invitin' me to his apartment where, accordin' to his story, the luscious LaTour, queen of the strip world, has not been seen since. So I gives in.
When we reaches his apartment, he snaps on the lights, like he was nervous somebody might be hidin' inside, and locks the door tight. I watch close. He leaves the key in the lock, which makes me feel some easier.
He has quite a nice little joint. Not gaudy, but nice. He goes to one bookshelf, presses a button, and a shelf slides back. Inside, he's got enough wiggle-water to fill all the Martian canals and irrigate the Moon.