Clearly, Fanetti did not know what to do. He sat there looking sadly at Heck, looking sadly at Laara.
Then Heck remembered.
Heck teleported.
But Fanetti clung to him.
"I don't get you dames a-tall," Scarface Willy Talese said. "The skinny little strawberry blonde was all for it. I figure, that's the general idea. But I don't go for the skinny little strawberry blonde. You know? Some dames you go for and some dames you don't."
"I wouldn't know," Patty said coldly.
"Well, I go for you, baby," Scarface Willy said. "I go for you in a big way. And what Willy Talese goes for, he gets."
Patty stood behind the desk, her balance forward on the balls of her feet, her hands tensed on the edge of the desk, ready to run either way. Scarface Willy, a surprisingly small and dapper-looking middle-aged gentleman with only a very small scar pulling down the outside corner of his left eye and a custom-tailored outfit which must have cost him a cool three hundred dollars, stood in front of the desk. He went one way. Patty went the other way. Scarface Willy lunged over the desk. Patty hit him with a paperweight but he bobbed like a clever boxer and it only grazed his forehead. "Irish," he said. "I like your Irish, girl. I like everything about you."
"I—I'll bop you again," Patty vowed. "Or else I'll scream. Yes, I'll scream."