She had tangerine-colored hair, sultry blue-shaded eyes and her fingernails were painted burnt-orange. She was wearing a lime silk wrapper and, as far as Blake could tell, nothing else. She drew on the du Maurier, let smoke slide out the corners of her mouth, spoke huskily into the telephone. “You’re sure, Sadie?” She listened a moment, then made a raspy laughing noise deep in her throat. “Are you crazy? I call the Vice Squad and they’ll come for me!” She laughed again. “Well, thanks, anyway.” She raised a hand for the telephone, then said, “Who? Sid Barstow? Yeah, he might at that.” She put down the telephone, looked across the glass coffee table. “That makes nine calls.” Her legs were bare up to where the lime silk fell away from slender brown thighs. “What about this Sid?” Blake asked. She blew a derisive puff of smoke at him. “You sure got the hots.” “I told you it wasn’t that.” “Yeah. You told me.” Amusement curled her mouth. “Why didn’t you get her name when you were in the hay with her?”
What do You think about Black Is The Fashion For Dying?
