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liquid lime-green eyes that could penetrate granite. She was willow thin and wore a chic one piece olive-colored jumpsuit that concealed every female feature. |
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She demolished her plate of sausage gravy, then started on what I couldn't finish. |
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The exchange of pleasantries was unusually brief, and within a matter of minutes she vaulted headlong into the personal aspects of her life. She was 29 years old (I would have guessed younger), a doctoral candidate at Ann Arbor in the field of anthropology, never married, twice engaged, and flat broke. Along the way she avoided any mention of her family, her hometown and any other references to a life prior to her association with Cosmo Leach. She'd arrived on time (a plus with E.G. Wages) with a battered rust-colored portfolio that she carefully guarded on the seat beside her. |
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Only once did she fumble. She began a slavish proclamation that she had read everything I had ever written, and that if such things could be measured, she was in fact probably one of my biggest fans. |
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The great Cosmo Leach once endowed me with a great one-liner for such occasions, and it seemed appropriate to haul it out. "Miss Cashman, you're full of bullshit." Having demonstrated my Leachonian vocabulary, I continued. "If we're going to have an adult, semi-intelligent conversation, |
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