Both names fitted her well enough, I supposed. Anybody with eyeballs could tell she looked very jazzy indeed; and I could personally attest that she smelled splendid. I knew she smelled splendid, because on two previous occasions within the past week, both of them at her soon closed—and locked, and probably barred—apartment door, I had managed to get a sniff of some kind of aphrodisiac which she dabbed behind her ears. Whether she dabbed the stuff—Sortilège, I think it was—anywhere else, I hadn’t the haziest idea. And to a thirty-year-old bachelor named Shell Scott—that’s me—smelling ears is not exactly the high point of a wildly exciting evening. Consequently little Jazz had begun to strike me as a bit waltzy. But this was our third joint expedition into the night life of Hollywood, and Jazz had hinted that tonight’s foray might be even more orgiastic than the first couple. At least, she had if you can call unbelievably steamy glances from hot brown eyes a hint. Or the implied promise of tomato-red lips on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
What do You think about The Shell Scott Sampler (1997)?
