She put the car in motion, turned her head back over her shoulder, and sang to him:
"To hell, my love, with you!"
We rode into town rapidly.
"Is Bush dead?" she asked as she twisted the car into Broadway.
"Decidedly. When they turned him over the point of the knife was sticking out in front."
"He ought to have known better than to double-cross them. Let's get something to eat. I'm almost eleven hundred ahead on the night's doings, so if the boy friend doesn't like it, it's just too bad. How'd you come out.?"
"Didn't bet. So your Max doesn't like it?"
"Didn't bet?" she cried. "What kind of an ass are you? Whoever heard of anybody not betting when they had a thing like that sewed up?"
"I wasn't sure it was sewed up. So Max didn't like the way things turned out?"
"You guessed it. He dropped plenty. And then he gets sore with me because I had sense enough to switch over and get in on the win." She stopped the car violently in front of a Chinese restaurant. "The hell with him, the little tin-horn runt!"
Her eyes were shiny because they were wet. She jabbed a handkerchief into them as we got out of the car.
"My God, I'm hungry," she said, dragging me across the sidewalk. "Will you buy me a ton of chow mein?"
