“Jericho? Mm-hmm,” Evie said, nearly flinching at the words your friend Mabel.
“What is it about that guy?”
“You just don’t like him because he hates you.”
“That isn’t the only reason,” Sam said.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I suppose you like the giant, too.”
“Jericho? Oh, he’s nice enough, I suppose.”
“So you don’t like him,” Sam said, smiling.
“I didn’t say that.”
They had passed the many music publishing houses of Tin Pan Alley in the West Twenties and were close to the fashionable town houses of Gramercy.
“You have a steady fella?” Sam asked after a bit.
“No fella can hold me for long.”
Sam gave her a sideways glance. “That a challenge?”
“No. A statement of fact.”
“We’ll see.”
“You still owe me twenty bucks,” Evie said.
“You’re a lot more like me than you think, Evie O’Neill.”
“Ha!”
“What I meant to say is, you like me a lot more than you think.”
“Keep driving, Lloyd.”
The car jostled along, past a flock of dark-suited businessmen holding fast to their bowler hats in the stiff wind whipping off the East River and barreling down the canyonlike streets.
“Got a little something for ya,” Sam said. His smile was cryptic.
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s that? I already told you the bank’s closed.”
“Some neck lightning.” He pulled a necklace from his pocket and offered it to her.
Evie gasped. “Holy smokes! That looks like a real diamond on there! Where’d you get this?”
“Would you believe a generous aunt?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. Where I got it, they won’t miss it. They got plenty.”
Evie sighed. “Sam…”
“I know their type. They don’t care what happens to anyone but themselves. They buy everything the magazines and billboards tell them to and forget about it when something new comes along.”