A low gasp erupted from a nearby table and a whisper that sounded like the word, disgraceful. I turned my neck to see two deadheads were listening, leaning close to us, even, to hear better. I was thinking of walking over there and giving them a little chin music, but one was obviously a dame in a man’s suit, so I left it at that.
Huh. Something just occurred to me. The Old Man hates skirts. Chases them out of the bar every chance he gets (hence the cross-dresser.) In fact, the only woman I ever seen in the bar proper was Claudia Winston. Something stinks wrong in my nosehole about that. I’d better make a note to look into—
Oh, but the head’s talking again.
“So our dear Paquita finds herself alone and without her virtue. You know, a woman might bounce back from that today, get a job wit
