Walch rattled ice in his highball glass. “Lanerd said so.”
“That’s what always threw me, sweetie. Never could figure how she hawgtied him. Sucker could have his pick of the flock.” She motioned to Mickey for a refill. “She must have something.”
Walch inspected her sardonically. “Nothing you haven’t got.”
“Should hope not.” Edie raised her tone on the last word.
“Only she doesn’t pass it around like canapés at a cocktail party.”
She thought that very comical.
The page boy came along. “Mista Walch — Mista Walch—”
Walch called, “Boy.”
The page boy turned. “Mister K. Walch? Long-distance for you, sir.”
“Sure it’s for me? Walch with a c?” The manager was puzzled. “Where’s it from?”