“Hold it right there, buster!” She spoke fast, too, like the heroine of one of those screwball comedies from the thirties.
“Easy, sister,” Scratch said. “No reason to let that thing go off.”
“I will, if you make any sudden moves,” the woman said.
“No sudden moves from me,” Scratch said.
“Who are you?” She demanded.
“Sheriff Shep Howard,” Scratch said.
The woman was taken aback and not fully certain whether that was a lie or the truth.
“Where's your badge?” She asked.
Scratch shrugged. “At the station.”
“Well,” she said, exasperated. “I don't understand…”
“What I'm doing isn't exactly legal.”
“Police do it all the time,” she said. “Breaking into houses… Say, what's with the patch over your eye?”
“A burglar shot it out a few years ago,” Scratch said.
Again, the woman didn't know whether to believe him or not. She grunted an OK. “Why are you here?”
Scratch took a step toward her. The woman raised her eyebrows and shook her head at him. Scratch smiled and said: “I forgot something here when we answered the call to the suicide of Mr Hammock.”
“Suicide?” The woman lowered the Luger slightly, her wrist tiring from holding it in the same position. “He didn't commit suicide.”
“No?” Scratch asked.
“No! He was stabbed in the back of the neck… Wait! Shouldn't you know this if you're the Sheriff?”
Scratch lunged at her and caught the woman's hand just as the Luger went off. He forced her hand toward the floor. The bullet struck the floorboard by her left foot. She screamed, jumped, and dropped the gun. Scratch was already falling on top of the woman, grabbing the collar of her blouse.
The material ripped as he and the woman fell hard on the floor. He was lying on top of her, face to face. She was struggling with him, her skirt riding up and her legs wrapped around his waist, revealing the same diamond pattern panties, black garter belt attached to suntan stockings. She tore a hand free and dug her nails into Scratch's right cheek. He groaned and took hold of the hand, forcing it to the floor to match the other he already had pinned down.
Her eyeglasses were pulled to one side and he got a good look at big brown eyes.
“Wow,” he found himself saying without realizing it. “You really are a knockout.”
This statement caught the woman by surprise.
The woman gasped. “I… I am?”
There was an uneasy silence. they both gave a nervous laugh. Scratch did the gentlemanly thing. He removed himself from the woman, even though the next logical step would have been to kiss her. She seemed torn between wanting him to stay and fixing her skirt to a more presentable position.
Scratch sat up and leaned against the couch. The woman joined him. She fixed her glasses, then her hair. Scratch took out a pack of Camels and offered her a cigarette. She smiled and took it between her first and middle fingers.
“I suppose I should introduce myself,” she said. “I'm Lilly Griffin. I'm Mr Hammock's secretary – was his secretary.”
Scratch smiled, tipped his hat up. He lit her cigarette first, then his. They blew out smoke simultaneously.
“Yeah, well, I'm not the sheriff,” Scratch said.
Lilly cocked her head. “I gathered that.” She chortled. “Did someone really shoot your eye out?”
“No.” Scratch laughed. “Lost it in a car accident.”
“Oh.” Lilly was disappointed. She wanted to hear a good, action-packed story, and she would've been OK with a lie. “So who are you then?”
“My name is Scratch Williams.” He inhaled then exhaled blue smoke. “I work for Oliver Spiff.”
“Ah,” Lilly said. “That makes sense.”
“How so?”
She took a long drag from her cigarette and gazed at Scratch for 45 seconds or longer, before exhaling. A huge cloud of blue smoke rose to the air above her head. Scratch watched the smoke disappear, then shifted his eyes back to Lilly's. She had a thin top lip and rather full bottom lip, and Scratch noticed Lilly had painted on her red lipstick to make the top lip look as full the bottom. Still, Scratch really liked her appearance. He thought she was striking, with those gold-tinged, slightly thick brown eyebrows and thin, spider-web lashes.
“Spiff and Horace hated each other. But they needed each other,” Lilly said. “Horace went bankrupt a few years back. Borrowed money from Spiff. Spiff thought he owned the newspaper. Fat chance,” she shook her head and laughed. “No way, José. Horace made a deal with someone in Vegas. He paid Spiff back every penny. Tore up the marker in his face.”
“Is that what's in the hatbox?” Scratch asked.
Lilly shrugged. “What hatbox?”
“That's what you're looking for,” Scratch said.
“No I'm not.”
“Then why do you look so guilty?”
“Look, buster…” She turned red in the face and her anger level had risen to 10. That top lip started to curl up again.
Scratch was pleased with himself for that accomplishment. He threw his hands up, smiling. “OK, OK. You're not looking for a hatbox.”
“Good! I'm glad we got that out of the way!”
He had another question designed to make her even angrier. One of Scratch's favorite pastimes was getting under people's skins. He really enjoyed needling them. Sticking it to them and seeing what the outcome was. If the situation became ugly, he'd apologize or wait for the first punch to be thrown. Afterwards, retaliate anyway he could.
“So…” He chose his words carefully. “You call him 'Horace' and not 'Mr Hammock?' ”
Instead of getting mad, Lilly smiled.
Scratch threw another fireball at her. “Were you more than just his secretary?”
She batted those huge eyelashes at Scratch, the spider web dashed the lens of her eyeglasses with light-speed precision.
“Of course I was,” Lilly said. “Just not in public or
