“A piece of your what?” She grinned. “MIND,” she spelled. As interested as I was in hearing whether or not mangy Moseberg hadhad his chance, just looking at Freda standing in front of me, a bottleof Scotch in each hand, and a strapless, backless, neckless, and damnnear clothless scrap of some-thing-or-other trying to cover up a bodylike that! Christ! I could hardly hear a word she said. It didn't takemuch deciding to forget little Joe for a while. She knew it too, because she stopped talking to let a lecherous smileglide over her face. “Is that the whiskey you're drooling over?” she whispered. “What else?” I countered, and took the bottles out of her hands.“I'll mix up a few,” I said, and walked over towards the bar. “What else, indeed?” I heard over my shoulder. Then her voice gainedback some of its volume. “That's what I like about you, among otherthings. You don't kid anyone when it comes to sex, and you don't letanyone kid you. But when it comes to anything else, you don't have anhonest or natural thought in your head or bone in your body.”
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