"Too lazy. Too busy. And I can deal with her. Spoiled—and too bad—because the guy she left sounds okay. I wish I could help her out. Taking—what they call—advantage of her, probably wouldn't. And you can't re-do a person's attitude and background in a few days—especially with a serial to correct. Usually requires years, and a good analyst—"
"Another wife—to be hated."
"By you?"
Hattie nodded. "I hate thousands of them. Some, I adore."
We didn't seem to find anything to say for a minute. I could have given her one more name for the short side of the ledger but I didn't want to. Finally I said, "If you get any ideas about Marcia—?"
"Call me up—when you've met her. Better still—come by again."
"I will." I had no idea whether I would or not.
She got up. "Look. Do me a favor and autograph a couple of your books for me, will you? And have another cup of coffee while I go downstairs and get them?"
"All right."
She went. Pretty soon a tall, redheaded girl came in without knocking, just as I'd expected one would. Brown-red hair—long, curled at the ends, and a pair of legs to look at. A girl like a mannequin—but no pose; no hauteur. She had enough sex appeal for the end of anybody's chorus line. She smiled open a wide mouth on even teeth and fixed her hazel eyes on me. Hattie remembered: I had never approved of whores who looked like whores. This one looked like a bright assistant on a magazine—or maybe the wife of a lucky prof.