Free Fly Paper by Max Allan Collins Page B

kissed his cheek and played with the salt-and-pepper hair on his chest and said, “No, really, what are you?”
    “I told you downstairs. Gangster, like you guessed.”
    “Come on.”
    “Very specialized gangster, though.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah. All I do is see to it nobody gives Sinatra a bad time.”
    She laughed again, and the covers fell down around her waist, and he got a long look at her breasts. They were full, very, too full for her otherwise slender body, but he didn’t mind. The nipples were small, which made the breasts look even bigger. They were coral color, her nipples, and he liked them. He leaned over and nibbled one.
    “Hey!” she said. “You’re a horny S.O.B., aren’t you? Don’t be a glutton.”
    “Lady,” he said, between nibbles, “I’ll take all the servings I can get. I don’t often eat at restaurants this nice.”
    “Quit it,” she giggled, in a tone that said go ahead.
    Ahead was where he went, and they had a good time, their second. Nolan believed in going twice whenever possible, because the second time can be done slow and lovingly, without the urgency that makes the first round so good but so frantic. She had an ass as nice as her breasts, not skinny like the rest of her; something soft and fleshy and fun to fill his hands with.
    She was doing him a lot of good: his bridges with Sherry were getting burned a bit faster than he had anticipated, and that was a relief. He realized his separation from Sherry had been a little heavy on his mind, and though he hated to admit it, even to himself, he missed the girl, damn it; and he didn’t like going into a heist with that sort of emotional preoccupation working on him.
    So sex this afternoon was a real lucky break for him. Made him feel purged. Made him feel great, like a fucking kid.
    “Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said, sitting up again, her breasts hanging loose now, sagging just a little, as though tuckered out.
    “Wrong idea about you?” he said. “Or about stewardesses?”
    She grinned; a good grin, the sort many pretty girls avoid. “Either one. Want a smoke?”
    “No. Gave ’em up.”
    “How come?”
    “Not healthy. Man gets to be my age, he better watch his ass.”
    “What do you mean ‘your age’? How old are you, anyway?”
    “Forty-eight,” Nolan lied.
    “That’s not so old. I’m thirty-five, which is kind of old for a flight attendant.”
    At least thirty-five, Nolan thought, saying, “You look like twenty, kid.” He stroked a breast. Kissed her neck.
    “Hey, give me a break . . . enough’s enough. For right now, anyway. So tell me, what is your racket? What are you doing in Detroit?”
    “I manage a nightclub, Chicago area,” he said. (Which was semi-true, after all: the Tropical did use entertainment in their bar setup.) He told her that a friend of his, an old army buddy, had a little talent agency up here, and he’d promised to check out some of the guy’s new clients.
    “Oh really? You done that already?”
    “No. Tonight. Going out to his place tonight and see what he has to offer.”
    “Sounds like fun. Care for some company?”
    “Naw . . . it’ll be a drag. This guy’s agency is really small-time, I’m just looking at these acts out of friendship. Or pity. You’d fall asleep, the acts’ll be so bad.”
    She made a face. “Well, looks like another rip-snorter of an evening for old coffee-tea-or-me,” she said, apparently feeling brushed off. “Suppose I’ll just catch another movie tonight, and if I’m lucky maybe get molested walking back to the hotel.”
    “Don’t give me that,” he said. “I can’t picture you sitting home alone unless you wanted to.”
    “I thought you said you didn’t believe what you read in paperbacks? My life isn’t any swinging party. This is the first time I’ve gotten any in weeks.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “No, really. I been a lousy nun lately. Ever since my marriage broke up, last year.”
    “You were married? I thought a stewardess