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Pistol Packing Mama – Gene Vincent
She twisted the bottle open and poured two glasses, and I sat on the sofa. Schmoo the cat was sitting on the arm, looking suspiciously at me. ‘I don’t think he likes me,’ I said.
‘She,’ Madge corrected me. ‘All tortoiseshell cats are shes.’
‘You learn something new every day,’ I said.
‘And if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t be in here. Now light the fire, please.’ She pointed out a box of foot long matches on the mantelpiece. I got up, lit one, bent down and put the flame to the newspaper in the grate. It caught and started to lick at the logs, and I sat back down and tasted the wine. ‘Not vintage,’ I said. ‘But the best Mehmet’s had in stock.’
‘Tastes fine to me,’ said Madge.
The fire caught and started to spit sparks. ‘Where do you get the l
