Gregory to where I'd parked the Pinto. Out on the river a barge horn sounded one long, melancholy blast. The girl hooted back at it in a graceful, jazzy soprano, pirouetted on her high heels, and flapped her long arms like a water bird taking flight. She came back to earth with a carefree laugh, planting a hand on her hat and looping the other through my arm. When we reached the car, I took a critical look at her. She stared back at me with a loose, gum-cracking grin—one leg shifted forward and bent at the knee, one hand planted on her bony hip. In that long-sleeved, high-necked print dress, she looked a little like a tough, brassy broad from a forties melodrama. Of course that was the way she'd wanted to look. But even though she'd dressed the part to a tee, her face wasn't right. It should have been fleshier, less chalky and delicate. She should have had more meat on her bones, too. She looked tough, all right, and cocksure, but she just didn't look full grown. lf she'd been five years older, she would have been tacky and pathetic.
