Mark of Murder by Dell Shannon

Mark of Murder by Dell Shannon

Author:Dell Shannon [Shannon, Dell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-06-13T01:43:11+00:00


She might have been pretty once, a shallow-eyed little blonde with the pert figure, out for the fun times and the romance. There were a thousand reasons for it, for the Rosies; this was a long time later.

She giggled up at Higgins a little foolishly. "Order me another drink, honey." Mendoza signaled the bartender, who shrugged and began to build a highball.

She might be no more than in her forties, but she looked sixty. That was a long time of too much careless make-up and too little washing. She was too thin, shoulder bones standing out sharply, her wrists and ankles like a child's. She hadn't much on under the old, mended, cheap black rayon evening dress, and the thin breasts pushed relentlessly out by the padded bra, the too thin body, were hardly provocative: only a little pathetic. Her hair, bleached too often and washed too seldom, was diy and uncurled, hanging untidily to her shoulders. She smelled of old sweat and cheap cologne and whiskey, and the coy painted smile was somehow a little obscene, as if a death's head had winked at them.

"We just want to talk to you," said Mendoza. The bartender came up and slapped a highball in front of her.

"Sure. That's what they all say," said Rosie, and giggled again. She drank thirstily.

"About silver dollars," said Higgins. "You've been spending a few lately. Don't often see silver dollars any more."

Rosie didn't say anything. She looked at him, setting her glass down, and small fright was in her eyes.

"Where'd you get them?" asked Higgins casually.

"H-how d'you know I had any silver dollars?" Suddenly she read them; Rosie would have had this and that to do with cops in the course of her misspent life; and she gasped and shoved violently against Higgins. "You're fuzz--you leave me be, I haven't done nothing--let me go!" She made no impression whatever on Higgins' solid bulk; but her voice rose, and the bartender came over in a hurry.

"I said no disturbance in here, bloodhounds! Listen--"

"We don't want you, Rosie," said Higgins. "Quiet down, you stupid little-- We just want you to answer some questions, damn it. We've got nothing on you, see? Take it easy--here, drink your drink."

She shrank into the corner of the booth. "I haven't done nothing,” she said sullenly.

"You've spent a few silver dollars, Rosie," said Mendoza. "That's all we want to know about. Where'd you get them?"

"Why's it matter to you, anyways?" She reached for her glass.

"It matters. Where?"

"From a friend o' mine," she said.

They could translate that. A customer. "What's his name, where'd you meet him?" asked Mendoza.

"I don't have to--it's no damn business of yours--"

"We'll go on sitting here," said Mendoza, "until you tell us, Rosie." Sharp savage irritation rose in him: obstructed every small step of the way! And Art-- Don't think about Art. "All we want to know is what he looks like."

"None o' your business. I didn't mean nobody gave 'em to me, I--l got this friend o' mine to change 'em for bills, see--" She was still busy defending herself on the obvious vice count.



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