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brother-in-law was just killed. I imagine it upset you.”
    “Why should it?”
    “Look, Laraine,” I said, “I’m not your headshrinker. It just seems natural to me that a girl would be upset when her sister’s hus…”
    “I’m not.”
    “Okay, let’s leave it at that. We started off wrong together, and it isn’t getting any better. Besides, I need a drink.”
    “I can use one, too,” Laraine said.
    “I didn’t invite you.”
    “I’m inviting myself. Do you mind?”
    “I thought I bothered you.”
    “I’m getting used to it.” She took my arm. “I know a quiet bar. We can talk there.”
    “Maybe I ought to see a barber and a tailor first. Get spruced up.”
    “It wouldn’t hurt,” she said. She grinned. “But don’t change a hair of you,” she cracked. “I want to remember you this way always.”
    I laughed, and we headed for the bar.
    * * *
    Laraine’s full name was Laraine Marsh. Her sister had been Christine Marsh. She was twenty-four years old, and she drank rye straight from a shot glass. Her eyes were very blue, and she never took them from a person’s face, either while talking or listening. Mostly, she talked. We sat in a booth in a Third Avenue bar, and I told her straight off that I was a professional drinker who couldn’t afford to pay for a social drinker’s pleasure. She told me straight off that she would pay for the drinks this one time alone and so, understanding each other, we began to drink and talk.
    I asked her if she liked her job.
    “In the five and ten?” she said “What a drag that is!”
    “Why don’t you get another job?”
    “There’s only one job I want. And I’m going to get it some day.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Guess.”
    “Secretary to the president of General Motors.”
    “Nope.”
    “Miss Rheingold?”
    “Nope.”
    “I don’t like guessing games.”
    “The tradition is three guesses,” Laraine said. “Take your last guess.”
    “High-priced call girl?”
    Laraine laughed. “Is that what I look like?”
    “That’s not a bad thing to look like. They’re the sleekest and best-dressed girls in New York.”
    “My ambitions aren’t that lofty,” she said.
    “Okay, I’ve run out of guesses.”
    “I’m flattered, though. That you thought I could…”
    “So what’s your ambition?”
    “…make the grade in what must be a highly competitive…”
    “What’s your ambition?”
    “…field. I don’t like to be interrupted, Cordell.”
    “Get friendly,” I said. “Call me Matt. And go to hell.”
    “What?”
    “I don’t like women to tell me when to interrupt them.”
    “We get along fine, don’t we?”
    “Just dandy,” I said. “I want another drink.”
    “Don’t forget who’s paying for it,” Laraine said.
    “I didn’t ask for the free ride. I can pay for my own.”
    “It’s my pleasure,” she said.
    “I think I know your ambition,” I said.
    “What?”
    “You’d like to run a concentration camp.”
    “I’m a singer,” Laraine said flatly.
    “Are you?”
    “And a damn good one.”
    I thought about this for a minute. Then I said, “How come such a good singer is working in the five and ten?”
    “I’m waiting for the breaks,” she told me.
    “Well, I’m sure Cole Porter will come up to the East side for a spool of thread one day. He’ll hear you humming behind the counter and sign you for his latest musical.”
    “I don’t want to sing musical comedy.”
    “You’ve got the other necessary attributes for a musical comedy.”
    “I’m a popular singer. I sing with a band now.”
    “Anybody I know?”
    “I doubt it. A bunch of local kids. We play weddings and beer parties, and like that. But it’s work. And it’s training.”
    “Sure,” I said.
    “There’s a lot more to making the grade than just being good, you know.”
    “I didn’t know.”
    “Sure. You need clothes and special arrangements,and a good accompanist doesn’t hurt, either. All that takes money. But I’ll get there.