Sarabande For A Bitch

“A piece of your what?” She grinned. “MIND,” she spelled. As interested as I was in hearing whether or not mangy Moseberg had had his chance, just looking at Freda standing in front of me, a bottle of Scotch in each hand, and a strapless, backless, neckless, and damn near clothless scrap of some-thing-or-other trying to cover up a body like that! Christ! I could hardly hear a word she said. It didn't take much deciding to forget little Joe for a while. She knew it too, because she stopped talking to let a lecherous smile glide 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 gained back some of its volume. “That's what I like about you, among other things. You don't kid anyone when it comes to sex, and you don't let anyone kid you. But when it comes to anything else, you don't have an honest or natural thought in your head or bone in your body.”