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the tops of her hands, looked at Neal, and said, “You think I’m a bimbo, don’t you?”
    It caught him off guard.
    “No,” he said.
    “Say the truth,” she said.
    If that’s what you want.
    “Okay,” he answered. “It’s crossed my mind.”
    “Neal!” Karen said.
    “No offense,” Neal said. “My mother was a bimbo.”
    Polly’s head snapped back and she gasped. “That’s an awful thing to say about your mother! You should be ashamed, talking about your mother that way!”
    Neal shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
    “All the more reason,” she said. Then she turned to Karen. “You know what I don’t like about men?”
    Karen took a moment to give Neal a dirty look before answering. “I have a few ideas.”
    “They’re stupid,” Polly said.
    We sure are, Neal thought.
    Walter Withers sat at the bar at the Blarney Stone and snuggled up to a glass of Jameson’s that felt so good, he didn’t mind Rourke’s habitual harangue.
    “This used to be a great town, you know that?” the bartender asked. “When Jimmy Wagner ran it, him and the Irish and the Italians.”
    Withers nodded agreeably.
    It’s a great town right now, he thought. I’m sitting in a nice warm dark bar with a glass of good whiskey in my hand and fifty thousand dollars in cash at my feet. And as soon as I complete my business here, I’m going to meet Gloria at the Oak Room, speaking of the days when this was a great town. A drink or two at the Oak Bar and then a taxi over to the Palm for a rare porterhouse and a glass or two of dark red.
    And I wonder where Blossom Dearie is singing tonight.
    “A great town,” the bartender repeated. “Guy got out of line, the cops smacked him around, and that was that.”
    Withers nodded again. As the only customer at the bar, it was his job.
    “Ah, Walt, the wife walked out again.”
    Withers shook his head sympathetically. “Women, huh?”
    “Yeah, says she can’t stand my drinking. I don’t drink that much. You know that bartenders aren’t drinkers, Walt. We see too much.”
    An opening.
    “Have you seen Sammy Black, Arthur?” Walk asked. “Has he been around?”
    “Just this afternoon he was in here asking about you,” Rourke answered. “So I says to her, I say, ‘You don’t like my drinking? I don’t like your eating.’ She gets pissed off, packs her things, and storms off to her mother’s—who’s what, maybe ninety?”
    Withers was almost grateful when Sammy Black walked in, even if he did have Chick Madsen with him.
    “Break his wrist, Chick,” Sammy ordered. Sammy was wearing a black overcoat, black sports jacket, black shirt, black shoes, probably black underwear. “A man who picks Minnesota to beat the spread on the road on Monday night deserves a broken wrist.”
    Chick waddled over to Withers’s stool, started to grab his wrist, then hesitated.
    “Right or left, Sammy?” Chick asked.
    “You right-handed or left-handed, Walter?” Sammy asked.
    “The sinister hand,” Withers told him.
    “What?”
    “Left-handed, Sammy,” Withers explained.
    “His left wrist,” Sammy ordered.
    Chick grabbed his left wrist.
    “That won’t be necessary,” Withers said. “I have the payment in full.”
    “You do? Hold on. Let me tell Tinkerbell. Tink, Walter has the money,” Sammy said. He paused to listen, then said, “Tink doesn’t believe you, Walter. Let’s all clap and say we believe.”
    “I can’t clap, Sammy. Chick has hold of my arm,” Withers said.
    “And I don’t hear any snapping of bones or screams of agony, Chick,” Sammy chided.
    Withers said, “It’s in the briefcase by my feet. Let me get it.”
    “Okay, I’ll play.” Sammy sighed. “Let’s see what’s in the briefcase.”
    “Unhand me, sir,” Withers said.
    Chick let go of his arm. Withers took a hit of the Jameson’s, then reached down and picked up the briefcase. He turned on the stool so his back was to the bookie and his goon and dialed the combination. Then he opened the