“I don’t.” I made it not loud but emphatic.
“Why should you? I do. My folks in Michigan think I’m acting or modeling. I leave it vague. And here — oh, my God.”
Her chin worked, but she controlled it.
“Work is work,” I said. “My parents wanted me to be a college president, and I wanted to be a second baseman, and look at me. Anyhow, if your picture gets printed and it’s a good likeness, who knows what will happen?”
“This is my Gethsemane,” she said.
That made me suspicious, naturally. She had mentioned acting. “Come off it,” I advised her. “Think of someone else. Think of the guy that got stabbed — no, he’s out of it — think of his wife, how do you suppose she feels? Or Inspector Cramer, with the job he’s got. What was he asking you just now?”
She didn’t hear me. She said through clamped teeth, “I only wish I had some guts.”
“Why? What would you do?”
“I’d tell all about it.”
“All about what?”