“Honest to God, ma’am, I know a lot less than you think.” I know I have a bigger gun, if only I weren’t such a slow draw.

She gives me the stink eye and utters something loud, angry, and incomprehensible. I give it even odds that she’s speaking Greek, Russian, or some made-up crazy person language.

Leaning in, letting her blouse show ample cleavage, she practically spits, “What do you know of the jewel?”

I shrug, “It’s a whole lousy lot of trouble, that’s what. Half a dozen people swear it rightly belongs to them. Now, I know it ain’t mine. I’m just trying to figure it all out so my boss doesn’t kill me.”

“Aha!” she snaps, “Who do you work for?”

I swallow hard and eyeball her breasts—not cause I want to, just to stall. This feels like a time when I shouldn’t be talking. I feel I should lie. Possible fabrications are not presenting themselves as I might like.

“May I, if you please, have a drink?”

Her smile is wry, and her hips serpentine as she steps back. I wonder if she was ever a dancer.