Day of the Guns

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I looked past Wally Gibbons at the woman who had just come into the Cavalier Restaurant and felt the same as every other man in the place. Just to see her had a startling effect, but that low laugh and throaty voice was like the caress of fingertips across a naked stomach.

She was tall and auburn-haired with the edges of it curling around an upturned collar onto her shoulders and the wide-belted trench coat made you tingle because you knew she was all real beneath it. She had the lapels thrown back wide so that the flesh of her throat merged into the swell of her breasts before plunging into the black fabric of her dress.

Pedro, the maître d’, bowed lower than was his usual habit, smiled more charmingly than he ever did to anyone else and led her past the tables of craning necks to the back of the room and into the alcove where the two stout men were sitting and hid her out of sight in the corner. Once she was there the table talk around us resumed, but the subject was the same, from the wishful thinking of the junior execs to the dirty cracks of the boys who liked to make like they’d been around.

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