The Deep

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Long before I got there I heard the word. It seeped through the nighttime of New York, the tone of it muffled by the rain, yet strong enough to reach away out from its source to the far places of the city. It came to me in a gin mill called Hardy’s just off Columbus Avenue from a half-bagged bim who had had the place to herself for too long.

She grinned crookedly when I walked in, throwing a half-sympathetic wink at my raincoat and then to the night outside. When I got my coat off she swirled the remains of her drink in her glass, threw it down and patted the seat next to her.

There’s no sense arguing with that type. They move in anyway and it was easier sitting and buying than trying to shuck her off and it was too wet to go back into the night again. But, for an accidental partner, she was all right. Big, but they’re better big. Harlow hair, bright white, yet soft and fluid like poured milk. And they’re usually better blonde, too.

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