I rang the bell. Or, at least I thought I did as no sound came from within. I waited. I rang it again. I wanted a smoke, and figured the best way to get some response was to light up. I ruin a lot of smokes that way. Just as I was about to fish out a Lucky, the door opened. It wasn’t a butler, nor the chauffeur. And it wasn’t Conrad.
It was a girl.
She was barely legal age for a drink, if that, which in Chicago is twenty-one. Yet she had a margarita in each hand, one half empty. She was small and delicately built, with the exception of a couple of chabobs bulging to get out of her halter-top, a garment that featured long sleeves with ruffles on the wrists—a strange wrapper, something like I’d seen at a Mardi Gras once. But even her edible figure paled next to her fire-red hair. She was the kind of cupcake who lead men around by the nose, then makes a quick exit if things get serious. Strangely though, her eyebrows were as black as a crow in a coal bin, with eyes to match. Fine grained white skin, the kind most women lose by the age of thirty. Her smirk sported blood-red lipstick. She struck a pose to show off two shapely legs and a snazzy pair of lime green panties, with “Wednesday” stitched on one hip. At least she was on the right day of the week. She handed me the full glass.
“I saw you drive up,” she said, licking salt off the lip of her glass, “I like tall men. I like drinking with tall men.”
“I suppose that’s the only thing they’re good for.”
She looked puzzled. It made her think, something she wasn’t used to doing.