solid, heavy hips and her slacks were tight fitting. As she walked to the telephone booth the movement of her derrière was something that even non-drinking and respectable men would have stared at.
I was a drinking, non-respectable man, so I stared without any inhibition. When I had lost sight of this portion of her body as she shut the telephone booth door, I lifted my eyes to look at her face.
She would be about thirty-three: a blonde with clear cut, somewhat cold features, but as a general ensemble she was very, very attractive to any male.
I drank half my ninth whisky and watched her use the telephone. I couldn’t tell if her conversation was a happy one or not. The sun goggles made speculation impossible, but she was quick and to-the-point. She was in the booth under a minute flat. She came out and walked past me, without looking at me. I stared at her straight back and the heavy curve of her hips for a brief, pleasant couple of seconds before she let the door swing behind her.
I was drunk enough to think that if I had been a single man, she would be the one I would have gone for. A woman, I reasoned to myself, with a figure like that, with her poise and looks must be sensational in bed. If she wasn’t, then life was even a bigger illusion that I had imagined it to be.
I wondered who she was. Her clothes were expensive. The yellow and white handbag wasn’t something you picked up in a junk shop.
The yellow and white handbag.
She had taken it into the telephone booth with her, but I couldn’t remember her coming out with it.
I was now so sloshed, thinking became an effort. I screwed up my face, trying to remember. She had gone into the booth with the bag in her right hand. I was certain she had come out of the booth without anything in either hand.
I finished my whisky, then with a shaky hand, I lit a cigarette. So what? I said to myself. I had probably not noticed the bag when she came out.
Suddenly the bag became important to me. It became important because I wanted to prove to myself I wasn’t as plastered as I thought I was.
I got unsteadily to my feet and walked to the telephone booth. I opened the door and there on the shelf was the handbag.
Well, you old sonofabitch, I said to myself, you’re as sober as a judge. You saw at once she had forgotten her bag. You’re carrying your liquor like… like… well, you’re carrying your liquor.
The thing to do, I went on, talking to myself, is to look in the bag and find out who she is. Then you take the bag, telling the barman she has left it in the telephone booth – you must tell him otherwise if you are spotted walking down the street with a lady’s yellow and white handbag, some cop might pinch you – then when you have told the barman, you’ll take the bag to her address and who knows – she might reward you with something more than a kiss – who knows?
That’s how drunk I was.
So I stepped into the booth and closed the door. I picked up the handbag and opened it. As I did so, I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching me. Ex-jailbird Barber: that was me: taking no chances; always on the look out for trouble.
No one was watching me.
I turned my back which was broad enough to fill nearly all the booth, and picked up the telephone receiver; a smart move this – and resting the receiver against my ears, I examined the contents of the bag.
There was a gold cigarette case and a gold lighter. There was a diamond clip which could have been worth fifteen hundred dollars if not more. There was a driving licence. And there was a fat roll of bills and the top one was a fifty. If the others matched it, there could be close on two thousand dollars in that nice looking, juicy roll.
The sight of all that money brought me out in a sweat.
The cigarette case, the lighter and the diamond clip didn’t interest me. All three could be traced, but I found myself being too interested in this fat roll of money.
With this money in my
David Dalglish, Robert J. Duperre