“Vince,” she called softly. “Vince?” I put the .32 automatic in my pocket, walked over to the front door, unlatched and opened it. She stared at me, huddled against the door jamb. She looked very unhappy. She wore a thin cotton sheath dress and black pumps. The thick auburn hair was snarled. She carried the white cylindrical purse. “You,” she said. “I promised you.” She began to slide down the door jamb. I reached out, caught her arm, hauled her inside, and closed the door. Her eyes roved the room. “Vince,” she said. “Vince.” She looked as if she had tried to fix herself up before she came to see him. The dress fit her very tightly and was as smooth as skin. Then I noticed she only had on one shoe. “You’ve lost a shoe,” I said. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at me. “I promised you, and I’m sorry. I had to see him.” Her eyes were like buckshot in one of these games you used to find in Cracker-Jack boxes, rolling loosely, trying to find home. She was crocked to the hairline.
