He made a gurgling sound, and his eyes slid down to my chest.
“So,” I said, “you have any dope?”
“What are you kidding me? What do I look like?”
“A friend of mine said I could get some dope from you.”
“Oh yeah? Who's your friend?”
“Joyce Barnhardt.”
This got his eyes to light up in a way that told me Joyce probably hadn't paid cold cash for her marijuana.
“I know Joyce,” he said. “But I'm not saying I sold her any dope.”
“We have another mutual friend.”
“Who's that?”
“Her name's Nowicki.”
“I don't know anybody named Nowicki.”
I gave him a description.
“That must be Francine,” he said. “She's a pip. I just never knew her last name.”
“Good customer?”
“Yeah. She buys lots of fruit.”
“See her lately?”
His voice got crafty. “What's it worth to you?”
I didn't like the sound of this. “What do you want?”
Bernie made a smoochy sound.
“Gross!”
“It's because I'm short, isn't it?”
“No. Of course not. I like short men. They, um, try harder.”
“Then it's the hair, right? You want a guy with hair.”
“Hair doesn't matter. I could care less about hair. And besides, you have plenty of hair. It's just not on the top of your head.”
“Then what?”
“You don't just go around making smoochy sounds at women! It's . . . cheap.”
“I thought you said you were friends with Joyce.”
“Oh yeah. I see your point.”
“So how about it?”