Free pron chat with out payin credit
In this town I’m a realist.’ Goodie made a vague gesture. While our Mayor of All the People stumbles around with his eyes shut, City Hall, the cops, and the district attorney’s office own this town. ‘ You wouldn’t be, Sam.’ He set down his empty glass. The car canted, almost rolled, butted sideways into a sandhill, and rocked to a halt. He lay still, panting, hearing without comprehension the moaning wind and a liquid trickling noise.
‘I don’t know anything about politics.’ ‘When I was a kid, my old man — who was a tobacco farmer then — switched from Democrat to Republican to get the cash to run for Congress. ’ He put one foot on the cushion beside her and leaned forward so an elbow rested on the raised knee. The light had died from his eyes and the slight, almost consumptive flush had faded from his cheeks. Thanks for the wine, brat.’ ‘Sam…’ Her voice was soft. Under his steady gaze, she started to blush, but went on, ‘Sam, you don’t have to… And still Laverty’s gun remained on the seat beside his thigh. A hundred yards ahead the road ended at Yorba Street, without going through to Sloat. His gun was still in his hand; directly ahead gaped escape where the door was gone.
’ ‘Coffee Dan’s it is.’ ‘Do gamblers really hang around there, and does the man on the piano really sing dirty-’ ‘Just hymns,’ Hammett assured her seriously. Pieces tend to fall off when you get-’ ‘Thirty-three isn’t old.’ ‘Thirty-four on Sunday.’ Her face fell. ‘Sedately, sweetheart,’ he warned the glint in her eyes.
I don’t have a present…’ ‘Just get me a rocking chair.’ Hammett turned in at a narrow basement stairwell on the corner of O’Farrell.
He could feel the heat of her small firm body through her coat. ‘A cold nose only counts with dogs.’ ‘A dog you ain’t, lady.’ Goodie reached around the doorframe to flip on the light. Goodie dropped her coat on a sagging easy chair and headed for the kitchen. ’ ‘Good.’ Hammett waited in front of the couch, which was backed up against a davenport table with a Boston fern on it.
The din, mingled with smoke and the odors of good food and bad booze, rose around them like cloudy water as they descended the narrow wooden stairs.
‘They don’t seat you at Coffee Dan’s, angel.’ ‘ What? ‘They don’t seat you, you’re lucky if someone doesn’t knock you down trying to beat you to a — there’s one!
’ The sleeve-gartered, derby-hatted man at the piano, who was champing a dead cigar despite his singing, finished in a shower of tinkling notes. ’ He grabbed Goodie’s hand and dragged her across the sawdust-strewn floor.
’ She had watched the whole of Yellow Lily enthusiastically, her baby-blue eyes even wider than usual. He wore a maroon worsted Shaker coat over a wool shirt, an ideal outfit for the chilly San Francisco May evening. They crossed the foot of Powell Street, past gripmen and passengers heaving one of the rattly little cable cars around on the turntable for its next trip up Nob Hill. He was thinking about a one-time carnival showman named Felix Weber and his run-down rooming house. Across the street, Bernstein’s jammed itself out over the sidewalk like the prow of a fifteenth-century Spanish treasure galleon. Despite her short skirt and bobbed hair and rolled silk stockings, she was still really just a twenty-year-old small-town girl from Crockett who earned twenty-three dollars a week as receptionist for a credit doctor on Market Street.
They made quite a pair: Hammett a lean six feet two, Goodie a petite blonde who came just to his shoulder. Goodie was looking wistfully across Powell at the all-night Pig’n Whistle when Hammett said, ‘You ever been to Coffee Dan’s? ’ She danced almost sideways for a few quick steps, skipping to keep up with his forgetfully long strides. They went uphill on Powell under the marquee of the sprawling at-night Owl Drug Store. Too much stocking shows.’ Pure flapper, Goodie Osborne, from her cheap green felt cloche hat to the hem of her green jersey sports skirt a daring half-inch above her knees. She made a moue with her small soft carmined mouth. ’ But she didn’t try to jump on the shiny chute that flanked the stairs to curve down out of sight below street level.
Sand hissed against the bonnet, almost overwhelming the bulbous headlamps as the stolen car ran west toward the ocean along the southern edge of Golden Gate Park. He used his coat sleeve to wipe sweat from his forehead, then thumbed open his snuffbox and snorted a generous pinch of the white C-and-M crystal. To his right the black empty reaches of the park, to his left scattered dwellings with empty sand between, the dunes tufted with coarse sea grass and spurges and beds of low succulents. Lights had entered the small round rearview mirror. Who else would be crouched, waiting to pounce, along this lonely stretch of midnight road? It was his own car, not a police vehicle; the call had reached him at home with the family. Or would the car thief sense pursuit and try to lose him in the avenues running south from… The mist had tattered enough so he could use the lights of the car ahead as a guide. There was no sound except the high whine of escaping steam. Even as this registered, his eyes were finding the awkward turtle-trail scrabbled away from the car. He was spinning and dropping into his firing crouch, but Tokzek had already come up from behind the dune a dozen feet away with the big. Flung up against the glass as if in entreaty was a delicately boned hand. Even in the flashlight’s wavering rays her nude body was the delicate amber of old ivory.