Walch tossed the last of the purse’s scattered contents on the bar. “You take him for a Good Humor man?” He scowled at me. “Run along and lurk behind a potted palm, bud.”
“Hey!” Edie Eberlein protested. “He didn’t return everything I dropped.” She scrabbled things into her handbag.
Fran Lane came in quietly, headed over. Fran hasn’t grown bigger’n a minute in her thirty years, but she has more nerve than most tiger tamers. We don’t have enough protection work — that is, work a woman can handle — to keep her busy, so she doubles on the information desk, night side.
“Fran,” I indicated the mess the Martini had made, “lady’s dress, accidentally splashed. Will you go with her to the ladies’ lounge, see what you can do?”
“Why, certainly, Mister Vine.” Fran took Edie’s arm.
La Eberlein shook her off angrily. “Take care of myself, thank you. And I’ll send you the bill, stupid.” She glared at me.
Walch growled, “Ah, have another drink. Let it go.”
Mickey edged in behind Fran, waiting.
Fran cooed, “Why, that’s a shame. If you don’t sponge that off right away, you’ll ruin that lovely dress. Come on, honey.” She pushed Edie ahead of her so it looked as if she was tagging along behind instead of doing the propelling. Mickey, with great show of being solicitous, fell in on the other flank. Between them, she had to move.
Miss Eberlein didn’t want to go, but she wanted a public fuss even less. “Don’t go ’way, Keithy boy. Be right back.”