thin enough to confirm her slender curves, but not revealing enough to brag about what filled them out. Two long and shapely legs were crossed casually and propped up the entire stunning arrangement.
“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” was all that I could think of to say.
She laughed, and it was a pleasant sound that probably made me smile like a clod in return.
“Mr. Longville. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“If you don’t mind stepping into my office, then.” I extended my hand and she led the way. She took a seat. For some reason, I looked around; I was suddenly seized by an urge to straighten up the place. Men do this when they are in the presence of a beautiful woman, even though the woman has already seen the mess, even though they are themselves in love with someone else, and the beautiful woman in question is dating a mobster. Scientists do not understand why guys do this, but they do it anyway.
I removed some newspapers from my desk and threw them into the wastebasket and wiped some imaginary dust from my desk. My office stays pretty neat, actually. Mary sat across from me and smiled diplomatically. Guys were always cleaning up around her, I supposed.
“Francis said you wanted to speak with me, Mr. Longville. I’m sorry, but his friends opened the door for me.”
“No problem. It happens in my line of work, Miss . . .”
“Just call me Mary. My last name is . . . up in the air, at the moment.”
“All right, Mary. Here’s the story. For one reason or another, I’ve been digging around in your past for the past few days.”
“Oh, dear me.” The nice smile went away and came back, not quite so bright. There was a little bit of an apology hovering in her eyes somewhere. “Did Henry ask you to . . .”
I shook my head. “Not exactly. A man who said he was Henry came here, sat right where you’re sitting, and asked me to keep an eye on you.”
She swallowed slightly, and squirmed a little in her seat. “What did he look like, this man?”
As I described him, a look of recognition, and then bitter distaste, curled her porcelain features. There was something colder and deeper than simple hatred.
“When I was young . . . I ran away from home to be with Dominic Morton. I thought he was really something special. A slick guy who got whatever he wanted. I was seventeen—a very naïve seventeen. I thought it was all one big adventure. Dom was in his twenties, and already running his short cons. I was a dumb kid and I didn’t see it at first, but he used me from the start. Used me every way you can imagine. I stayed with him for a couple of years, and that was far too long. He got me mixed up in quite a bit of trouble, I can tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that trouble.”
She nodded slowly and took a deep breath. Her eyes glistened, and she steeled herself and went on: “When I was nineteen, Dominic and me—and Charlie Zellars, a guy who ran with us when we were doing short con jobs—we were at a racetrack, and I was at the betting window, and a man started talking to me. Dominic had taught me to be nice to all of his potential marks, so I was friendly. The man was in his forties, but you could tell by his clothes that he had money and plenty of it. I could also tell that he was lonely. Dom did some asking around and found out that the man was Carlton Silvers III, son of a son of a magnate from Birmingham’s old steel days.
Naturally, Dom wanted me to cozy up to the guy. So I did. I know how that sounds, but nothing stood between Dominic Morton and money. Like I said, he used me however he needed to. Youth is no excuse, though. I let him do it. But I was getting tired of the way he treated me, so in the course of the con, I fell for Silvers. Not with the stupidity and passion that the seventeen year-old me had fallen for Dom, perhaps, but Carlton was kind to me. He doted on me, and provided me with something I’d never had before—a secure home.”
“But
“Your picture doesn’t do you justice,” was all that I could think of to say.
She laughed, and it was a pleasant sound that probably made me smile like a clod in return.
“Mr. Longville. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
“If you don’t mind stepping into my office, then.” I extended my hand and she led the way. She took a seat. For some reason, I looked around; I was suddenly seized by an urge to straighten up the place. Men do this when they are in the presence of a beautiful woman, even though the woman has already seen the mess, even though they are themselves in love with someone else, and the beautiful woman in question is dating a mobster. Scientists do not understand why guys do this, but they do it anyway.
I removed some newspapers from my desk and threw them into the wastebasket and wiped some imaginary dust from my desk. My office stays pretty neat, actually. Mary sat across from me and smiled diplomatically. Guys were always cleaning up around her, I supposed.
“Francis said you wanted to speak with me, Mr. Longville. I’m sorry, but his friends opened the door for me.”
“No problem. It happens in my line of work, Miss . . .”
“Just call me Mary. My last name is . . . up in the air, at the moment.”
“All right, Mary. Here’s the story. For one reason or another, I’ve been digging around in your past for the past few days.”
“Oh, dear me.” The nice smile went away and came back, not quite so bright. There was a little bit of an apology hovering in her eyes somewhere. “Did Henry ask you to . . .”
I shook my head. “Not exactly. A man who said he was Henry came here, sat right where you’re sitting, and asked me to keep an eye on you.”
She swallowed slightly, and squirmed a little in her seat. “What did he look like, this man?”
As I described him, a look of recognition, and then bitter distaste, curled her porcelain features. There was something colder and deeper than simple hatred.
“When I was young . . . I ran away from home to be with Dominic Morton. I thought he was really something special. A slick guy who got whatever he wanted. I was seventeen—a very naïve seventeen. I thought it was all one big adventure. Dom was in his twenties, and already running his short cons. I was a dumb kid and I didn’t see it at first, but he used me from the start. Used me every way you can imagine. I stayed with him for a couple of years, and that was far too long. He got me mixed up in quite a bit of trouble, I can tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that trouble.”
She nodded slowly and took a deep breath. Her eyes glistened, and she steeled herself and went on: “When I was nineteen, Dominic and me—and Charlie Zellars, a guy who ran with us when we were doing short con jobs—we were at a racetrack, and I was at the betting window, and a man started talking to me. Dominic had taught me to be nice to all of his potential marks, so I was friendly. The man was in his forties, but you could tell by his clothes that he had money and plenty of it. I could also tell that he was lonely. Dom did some asking around and found out that the man was Carlton Silvers III, son of a son of a magnate from Birmingham’s old steel days.
Naturally, Dom wanted me to cozy up to the guy. So I did. I know how that sounds, but nothing stood between Dominic Morton and money. Like I said, he used me however he needed to. Youth is no excuse, though. I let him do it. But I was getting tired of the way he treated me, so in the course of the con, I fell for Silvers. Not with the stupidity and passion that the seventeen year-old me had fallen for Dom, perhaps, but Carlton was kind to me. He doted on me, and provided me with something I’d never had before—a secure home.”
“But
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