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"Maybe."
"It you don't get a little piece, it really messes you up inside, doesn't it? It makes everything real hard for you." She put her hand on my thigh and worked her fingers on my knee.
"What time is Eddie going to be in?"
"You're trying to pump me, hon. That's going to give me bad thoughts about you."
"It's just a question."
Her lips made an exaggerated pout, and she raised her hand, touched my cheek, and slid it down my chest.
"I'm going to think maybe you're not interested in girls, that maybe you're here for the wrong reasons," she said.
Then her hand went lower and hit the butt of the .45. Her eyes looked straight into mine. She started to get up, and I put my hand on top of her arm.
"You're a cop," she said.
"It doesn't matter what I am. Not to you, anyway. You're not in trouble. Do you understand that?"
The alcohol shine had gone from her eyes, and her face had the look of someone caught between fear and an old anger.
"Where's Eddie?" I said.
"He goes to dogfights sometimes in Breaux Bridge, then comes in here and counts the receipts. You want some real trouble, get in his face, and see what happens."
"But that doesn't concern you, does it? You've got nothing to gain by concerning yourself with other people's problems, do you? Do you have a car?"
"What?"
"A car." I pressed her arm slightly.
"Yeah, what d'you think?"
"When I take my hand off your arm you're going on your break. You're going out the door for some fresh air, and you're not going to talk to anybody, and you're going to drive your car down the road and have a late supper somewhere, and that phone on the bar is not going to ring, either."
"You're full of shit."
"Make your choice, hon. I think this place is going to be full of cops tonight. You want to be part of it, that's cool." I took my hand away from her arm.
"You sonofabitch."
I looked at the front door. Her eyes went angrily over my face again, then she slid off the vinyl seat and walked to the bar, the backs of her legs creased from sitting in the booth, and asked the bartender for her purse. He handed it to her, then went back to washing glasses, and she went out a side door into the parking lot.
Ten minutes later the phone did ring, but the bartender never looked in my direction while he talked, and after he hung up he fixed himself a scotch and milk and then started emptying ashtrays along the bar. I knew, however, that I didn't have long before her nerves broke. She was afraid of me or of cops in general, but she was also afraid of Eddie Keats, and eventually she would call to see if a bust or a shooting had gone down and try to make the best of her situation.
I had another problem, too. The next floor show was about to start, and the waitress was circling through the tables, making sure everyone had had his two-drink minimum. I turned in the booth and let my elbow knock the beer bottle off the table.
"I'm sorry," I said when she came over. "Let me have another one, will you?"
She picked up the bottle from the floor and started to wipe down the table. The glow from the bar made highlights in her blond hair. Her body had the firm lines of somebody who had done a lot of physical work in her life.
"You didn't want company?" she said.
"Not now."
"Expensive booze for a dry run."
"It's not so bad." I looked at the side of her face as she wiped the rag in front of me.
