We didn't seem to find anything to say for a minute. I could have given
her one more name for the short side of the ledger but I didn't want
to. Finally I said, "If you get any ideas about Marcia--?"
"Call me up--when you've met her. Better still--come by again."
"I will." I had no idea whether I would or not.
She got up. "Look. Do me a favor and autograph a couple of your books
for me, will you? And have another cup of coffee while I go downstairs
and get them?"
"All right."
She went. Pretty soon a tall, redheaded girl came in without knocking,
just as I'd expected one would. Brown-red hair--long, curled at the
ends, and a pair of legs to look at. A girl like a mannequin--but no
pose; no hauteur. She had enough sex appeal for the end of anybody's
chorus line. She smiled open a wide mouth on even teeth and fixed her
hazel eyes on me. Hattie remembered: I had never approved of whores
who looked like whores. This one looked like a bright assistant on a
magazine--or maybe the wife of a lucky prof.
"My name," she said, "is Gwen Taylor. Hattie got stuck for a few
minutes--and told me to come in. I've heard a lot about you--here and
there."