Robert Y. Kline
Copyright 2012 Robert Y. Kline
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"How about if I fix you a nice martini, Mr. Rossini?"
Tandy glanced over her shoulder. She saw the old man's eyes narrow dubiously. "I can make one for you. I really can. I have some Beefeater up here somewhere.
I even have a jar of olives." Then she frowned apologetically. "Unless you'd rather have a twist, but then I have a problem because I don't have any lemons."
She was standing on tip-toes in her bare feet, rummaging through the cabinet above the wet bar. The muscles of her bare calves flexed like those of a gymnast under the plaid schoolgirl skirt. She tried to conceal her anxiety with a veneer of cheer but it was a wasted effort. The old man could tell that she was nervous. She had a right to be. As she stretched toward the cabinet, Carmen Rossini gazed approvingly at the tanned calves and nubile curves. But something wasn't right. The girl didn't seem at ease in the luxurious apartment. Maybe if she was a model or an actress she'd fit in better, but her eyes betrayed too much innocence for either of those professions. And she had long, wavy hair that bounced when she walked and hung like a curtain of spun gold to her shoulders. A cheerleader, the mobster thought. She looks like a goddam high school cheerleader.