It turned nasty as they got out of the rented Ford in the hotel basement garage and headed toward the elevator. They fought in the elevator. They were still fighting when Dill unlocked the door to room 981 and held it open for Anna Maude Singe, who sailed into the room, trailing the accusation “goddamned fool” behind her. “It’ll work,” Dill said, closing the door. “Never,” she snapped. “Watch,” he said and crossed to the phone. After picking it up he looked at her questioningly. “Well?” “What is it with you anyway?” she demanded, her tone furious, her face pink and angry beneath the tan. “Do I owe you something? For what? Because we fooled around a couple of times? I don’t owe you anything, Dill. Not one damned thing.” Dill was dialing now. “Sure you do,” he said. “You’re my sweetie.” “Your sweetie! Christ, I don’t even like you anymore. I’m your lawyer. That’s all. And all I have to do is give you sound advice. Well, here’s some: don’t make that call.
