Floyd laughed. Tom was the right medicine for him.
They were driving uptown—Tom’s tongue went faster than the car; he had acquired a lot of practical information. “They’re starring the crime wave now, all bunk—we’re no worse than we were. Wait till after the election, the prisons will be so empty they’ll have to turn ’em into meeting houses. What do you think of them stinking Republicans up in Washington?”
“Tom, don’t insult my inherited political party. I’ve had them handed down to me, and I must carry them.”
Tom opened his mouth, the brimstone flowed, the air was blue; then suddenly he was dazzled by two shapely legs encased in flesh-colored cobwebs, and a pair of bright eyes emitting sparks.
“Taxi, Miss?” He drew up to the curbstone, smiling at her, showing his white teeth, sprang out, opened the door, dusted off the seat, held the rug in his hand.
She was undecided. “I don’t want to go, yet....”
“Yes you do, but you don’t know it,” laughed Tom.
A gust of cold wind blew her against him. Tom glanced downward.
“Your legs are cold?”
“Oh! Warm as toast.”