“God, he was handsome,” she said.
She didn’t mean Tom. Her blue eyes were focused on the newspaper and a black-and-white photo of a young man under the headlines, “Clark McCall Murdered”…“Prostitute Charged”…“Senator McCall ‘Devastated’”…“Presidential Campaign Delayed.”
“That’s a mug shot,” Scott said, “from when he was busted for dope. He was always in trouble.”
She shrugged. “He was rich.”
“His daddy’s rich.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Well, then, he should’ve picked you up Saturday night instead of that hooker.”
“Oh, I would’ve cost him a lot more than her. But then, I don’t carry a gun.”
“Girl, from where I’m standing, you’re sure packing some heat.”
She gave him a coy smile then dropped her eyes back to the newspaper. She shook her head slowly as if pondering a great mystery.
“Rich and handsome. Why would he want a black prostitute when he could have any white girl in town?”
“Cheaper, like you said.”
Scott always enjoyed flirting with Dibrell’s girls, but he had tired of this conversation. The murder of a senator’s son did not concern him this afternoon. He was here to make money. So he said, “Scott Fenney, to see Tom.”
The receptionist put down her polish, blew on her nails, and picked up the phone. She held the receiver carefully with the inside pads of her fingers so as not to scuff her fresh paint job, punched a button with the eraser end of a pencil, and said, “Mr. Fenney is here.” She hung up, rearranged herself in her chair so as to show off her impressive upper body, and said, “So, are you married?”