Crazybone
“A gas-log fire threw pulsing light over a collection of tables and dark leather booths, about three-quarters of them filled even though it was still a few minutes shy of five o’clock. Most of the ladder-backed stools at the bar were occupied as well. The drinkers there, with one exception, were all men or couples in animated conversation. You didn’t need to be much of a detective to figure out that the woman sitting rigidly on the stool near the entrance was in her cups and would answer to the ...name of Dale Cooney.
I sidled over that way to get a better look at her. Mid-to-late thirties, with the kind of dark, burnished red hair that gleams as black as blood in shadowy bar light. Big-boned body in a cream-colored pants suit. Nice profile, or it would have been if she were sober; at the moment her face and neck had a saggy appearance. Her attention was on the empty martini glass in front of her. Red-nailed fingers tapped a toothpicked olive against the rim, as if she were keeping time to music only she could hear.MoreLess
I sidled over that way to get a better look at her. Mid-to-late thirties, with the kind of dark, burnished red hair that gleams as black as blood in shadowy bar light. Big-boned body in a cream-colored pants suit. Nice profile, or it would have been if she were sober; at the moment her face and neck had a saggy appearance. Her attention was on the empty martini glass in front of her. Red-nailed fingers tapped a toothpicked olive against the rim, as if she were keeping time to music only she could hear.MoreLess
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