Solomon's Vineyard by Jonathan Latimer

scram.”
    “I'm not yellow.”
    “You're nuts.”
    “"Maybe you're yellow.”
    Her eyes got narrow. She didn't like that. “We're talking about you.”
    “You can't be in very good with Pug,” I said; “not if you're so
scared of him.”
    “I'm not scared of anybody.”
    “All right. Prove it by having dinner with me.”
    She stared at me, undecided. “Why're you so hot to get killed?”
    I let her have it. “I'm nuts about you.”
    Her mouth came open.
    “So help me,” I said. “I've got to have you. I don't care
if Pug's in the way.”
    “You've been hitting the opium.”
    “No.”
    She thought about this. Thinking made her frown. Now was the time to
turn it over.
    “Believe that,” I said, “and I'll slice it thicker next time.”
    She blinked her eyes.
    “Nothing about you gets me,” I said. “I'm just excitement-simple. You
probably wear corsets and your breasts are broken down.”
    “They are like hell.”
    “And I don't like Pug Banta telling me what I can do,” I said.
    Ginger slit open the zipper on the side of the black evening gown.
“Put your hand in there.”
    I did, feeling the smooth flesh with my fingers. “Okay,” I said. “No
corsets.”
    The bartender pop-eyed us.
    “Listen,” I said. “I've been trying to make you sore, so you'd go out
with me, so I could show Banta.” I ate the cherry out of my
old-fashioned glass. “I'm going to fix him some way. But since you're
scared ...” I stuck a finger at the bartender. “How much?”
    “Seventy cents.”
    Ginger said: “Wait a minute. How tough are you?”
    “Plenty,” I said.
    She gave me a long look. “If I could believe that. Well, what the
hell. Buy me a drink. Then we'll step out.”
    She had a sidecar. I had another old-fashioned. The bartender frowned
at us while we drank.
    “Ready?” I asked Ginger.
    “I'll get my purse.” She went out. I gave the bartender two bucks.
    “It's none of my business,” he said, “but Pug Banta's a killer.”
    I got out a fifty-dollar bill and tore it in half. I gave him the
smaller half.
    “How would you like the whole demi-c?”
    “Fine.”
    “Call Pug Banta,” I said. “Tell him I'm taking Ginger to Gus Papas's
place.”
    “Jeeze!” he said. “I wouldn't dare.”
    “Why not? You'll be doing him a favour. He might even slip you a note
or two.”
    He looked at the 50 on the piece of bill m his hand. He wanted it
bad. He picked up the telephone and called a number. He asked for Pug.
He said something else, and then he put his hand over the mouthpiece.
    “He's out.”
    “Tell it to whoever's there.”
    “Who's this?” he asked. “Oh. This is Tom over at the Arkady bar. I
thought maybe Pug would be interested in knowing his gal just went out
with the guy she was with last night. Yeah, Ginger. I think they're
going out to Gus Papas's place.” He hung up. I gave him the other half
of the fifty.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    We got in the Drive-It sedan. I started the motor. There was still
daylight at seven-thirty, and the air was hot.
    “Let's go to Gus Papas's.”
    “It's up to you.”
    “Which way?”
    She told me. In three minutes we were in the country. She sat at the
far end of the front seat, facing me, her legs curled under her, her
back against the door. Her eyes and lips were sullen.
    “I'm dumb,” she said.
    “Why?”
    “I know you're up to something.”
    “Maybe.”
    “You're not a G-man, are you?”
    “God, no!”
    “Are you really going to try to get Pug?”
    “Listen.” I scowled at her. “Nobody slugs me.”
    “I like you when you look like that.”
    We turned left past a schoolhouse and went down a dirt road Trees met
over the road, making it dark. The sky was red from the sunset. There
was no wind: it was going to be a hot night. We drove along for a time.
It was hard to see the road. The trees made it hard to see. I put on
the headlights, but they didn't do much good. I could smell clover in a
field by the road.