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Lina called Juan Porfirio, was standing by the desk. I took a good look at him. He was close to five-eight, give or take a little, and thin. But he looked wiry, as if he kept himself in shape with handball and steam baths. He looked middle-aged, but the olive skin of his face and neck was firm. He was dressed in a suit that probably cost more than any I own—which means he put out a good-sized bundle of cash for it. His hair was black, thick, and graying slightly at the temples, and his lips were thick, too full for the rest of his face. He looked like a vest-pocket edition of the "sensual Latin." He was Mexican or some kind of Latin, and he looked pretty sharp.
    He nodded at me as I sat down, then said to Maggie in a voice thick with a Spanish accent, "Thank you very much, Mrs. Remorse, for your time. I must leave now." He turned and went out.
    "Now whadda ya want?" Maggie roared.
    "A very strange thing happened," I told her. "Most peculiar. Miss Martin, the young woman I was with earlier, and I spent an hour or so here—"
    "Spit it out, man. Get to the point. I'm a busy woman."
    She wasn't so busy, and she wasn't much of a woman, but I didn't say so.
    I said, "Nuts."
    Her head jerked and the fat on her face wiggled. For a second I thought she was coming across the desk to sit on me and kill me. Then she grinned and chuckled.
    "Oke, Mac," she hiccupped. "Get on with it."
    "I'll tell it my way, Mrs. Remorse. As I said, a strange thing happened. Miss Martin and I left your place here, and inside of not more than two minutes a car came alongside and shot at us. With real guns. She was killed. I could have been, too, but I was lucky. Now, isn't that strange?"
    "Sure is. So what?"
    "Well, it happened right after we left this club of yours. I'm pretty sure nobody followed us out here. I thought maybe you could give me an idea how it happened somebody knew we were here. Seems funny we'd be picked up right when we left."
    "You're dumb. You're dopey, Mac. Now I dunno this chicken from sour apples, see? An' if somebody wantsa scrag her, I don't give a goddamn. They coulda pumped both of ya an' I'd sleep nights. See? But what's to stop some wiper from seein' the chickie here? Or somebody from callin' somebody? You never hear about no phones, Mac? Huh, Mac?"
    "You've got a point. But I wanted to ask. Mind some more questions? Just for laughs?"
    "Hell, no, sweetie-puss. Strangle yourself. Ask me anything except how old I am. Yaaaah!' The "yaaaah" was Maggie laughing. She slapped herself on the stomach with a blow that would have caved in my ribs, and shook all over, wheezing and guffawing.
    I looked at her for a moment before I said anything. She was a woman, I was thinking. I was born of a woman. Georgia was a woman. And Lina. The lovely, heart-stopping Lina. I wondered how Margaret Remorse got the way she was; if she'd ever played jacks or made dresses for dolls. It seemed silly as hell, looking at her, but she was a kid once.  
    "Pretty good spot you've got here," I said. "How long you had it?"
    "Since '45. Come up and bought it. Little gold mine."
    "Came up from where?"
    "Mexico, dearie. Mexico City. I was married down there in '34. Man loved me."
    I felt funny for a minute. She said, "Man loved me," and her face got different, sort of soft, as if she was remembering something she thought she'd forgotten. Then she spoiled it.
    "He was a son-of-a-bitch," she roared. "Chased all the damn chippies in Mexico. Plenty of 'em, too. He kicked the bucket. Heart attack. And I got his insurance. Only thing I ever got outa the son. Hey, Mac." She leaned forward. "They thought I poisoned the son-of-a-bitch. Dug him up and found out what he died of. Heart attack! Yaaaah!" and she was off again.
    She'd been smoking a brown, funny-looking cigarette out of a pack I'd noticed on the desk. It was a peculiar-looking pack, green with black lettering and a colorful picture of some kind on it, so while she was roaring and wiping her eyes and her hamlike