The Spiked Heel

“All right, but you get the point, don’t you? Point, there now, you should answer, ‘I get both points.’ Remember that Jane Russell Movie? ‘JR in 3/D. It’ll knock both your eyes out!’ I pity that poor, poor girl, believe me. I know just what she goes through.”

“They are beautiful, though,” Aaron said. He reached out and touched one of the blonde’s breasts, tracing it lightly with his fingers. “Beautiful.”

“You think so?” the blonde asked. Her chest expanded proudly under his fingers. She smiled and leaned her head back against his shoulders, taking his other hand and moving it up to the front of her dress. “They are pretty nice to have, after all, I guess;” she purred happily.

“Who culled me stupit?” Hengman asked.

“Break-ish ash fr’m,” Posnansky said.

“Who culled me stupit?”

“C’est beau?” Manelli exploded in French. “C’est magnifique!”

Canotti burst out laughing.

“I heard that one,” the brunette said.

Manelli patted her thigh paternally.

“You’re not eating any olives,” Stiegman said.

The redhead smiled. “Mister, olive-eating ain’t my profession.”

“What is?”

“You guess. It ain’t eating olives, I can tell you that much.”

He saw McQuade helping Marge from the room, and he was annoyed. He was annoyed because he’d appointed himself protector, and annoyed because he and Cara were getting along fine, and he did not particularly feel like leaving her. For a moment, he debated just letting Marge do whatever the hell she felt like doing, but she looked so helpless there, so vulnerable, and somehow the thought of McQuade touching her was a repulsive one. For no good reason, he remembered the small scratch on the leg of Maria Theresa Diaz.

“Excuse me, will you?” he said to Cara.

“Yes, of…”

He left her and started across the room. McQuade had his arm around Marge’s waist, and he was leading her into the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Griff quickened his pace. When he caught up to them, he tapped McQuade on the shoulder.

“Hello,” he said.

Marge looked up, trying to focus Griff.

“Hello, Griff,” McQuade said. There was no smile on his face now. He was sweating, and the sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip. His eyes were bright.

“Griff?” Marge asked. She nodded her head, as if affirming his presence.

“I was just taking her out for some air,” McQuade said. His eyes did not leave Griff’s face.

“Yes, I figured,” Griff answered, smiling. “I can take care of that, though. I promised Marge I’d take her home, and this seems as good a time as any, don’t you think?” He was amazed at the ease with which the lie sprang to his lips.

“In all honesty,” McQuade said, “no, I don’t think this is as good a time as any.”

Griff shrugged. “Well, I do.”

“Home?” Marge asked. “Tim’r go home, ’ready?”

“I think she’d like to stay,” McQuade said. He had not smiled once during the conversation, nor had the brightness left his eyes. He kept staring at Griff, as if trying to convince him by the sheer force of his eyes.

“Well,” Griff said, “I enjoy debates, but Marge is going home.”

McQuade released her suddenly. She wobbled for an instant, and then Griff caught her, steadying her with an arm around her waist.

“You’re rather like a twentieth-century chastity belt, aren’t you, Griff?” he said tightly.

“Look—” Griff started, and then he clamped his mouth shut. There was going to be trouble, he could sense it. He could feel a tight knot in the pit of his stomach.

“No, take her, take her,” McQuade said. “I make it a policy never to argue over a slut.”

Marge looked up suddenly, but McQuade’s remark had not penetrated her alcoholic haze. For an instant Griff wanted to smash his fist into McQuade’s face. He felt his hand tighten, but something stopped him from throwing the fist, and then suddenly McQuade was smiling, the hardness leaving his mouth, the crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He extended his hand.

“No hard feelings, Griff?”

Griff stared at the proffered hand for a moment. He hesitated, telling himself he should refuse the hand. He sighed then, and extended his own hand. “No hard feelings,” he said, feeling strangely relieved.

“Of course not,” McQuade said. “To the victor belongs—”

And then his grip tightened.

Griff had not expected McQuade’s sudden grip. He had offered his hand for a listless handclasp, and now he felt McQuade’s fingers tightening around his own and for a moment he felt awkward, mistaking McQuade’s grip for a sign of affection. But the awkwardness fled before a scream that almost escaped his mouth when McQuade really bore down. He pulled his hand back in a reflexive movement, but he could not extricate it. He saw McQuade’s jaw muscles tighten, and then the fingers closed on his hand like a vise, squeezing his bones together, shooting raw pain up past his wrist, daggering pain that rushed to his shoulder and his brain. He tried to pull his hand away, but McQuade would not release it.