She was a devious dame with legs that wouldn’t quit and a past that haunted her big green eyes.
He was a whiskey-swilling gumshoe who had been knocked on the head a few too many times, but he was still alert enough to notice that her husband was paying all the bills.
“You haven’t been straight with me,” he growled.
“I can’t be straight with anyone,” she retorted, and slapped him.
He slapped her back, hard, and she took it like a man, because she was a man, as he realized when the blonde wig fell off.
Suddenly, he understood why nothing made sense any more, and what was behind the endless sequence of incoherent plot twists and unrelated clues, the artificial dialog, his jumbled thoughts, the throbbing headache.
Spillane was having a seizure.
Wanda Farr is the pen name of a retired English teacher who lives in another place.
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