“I told her I’d kill her.” Jimmie stopped smiling. “I meant it.”
Mr. Corinth’s gaze faltered and fell. He plucked at a shabby necktie that bore, in a faded, fabulous print, pictures of cowboys and Indians. At last he said, softly, “Yes. Yes.
I can see what happened.
And why you—!” He sighed and smiled gently. “It’s a fine mess we’ve got our souls in! We wonderful Americans!”
“She’s in love with a guy named Harry,” Jimmie said, moving away from the old man’s desk. “And my folks do not love Harry at all.”
Mr. Corinth thought some more, and chuckled. “Worth it already, eh? You’ve got a lot of magic, boy. The slow, silent kind. Don’t ever belittle the quality—or abuse it.
Who’s Harry?”
“I dunno. I’ll find out.”
“Don’t bother. I will. My wife knows all these things. Her frontal lobes are filing cabinets, full of secrets and intrigue.”
Jimmie grinned. “I guess my lab’s clear now.”