by Frank Kane
Muggsy pushed him into a wicker armchair. “Relax, Johnny, while I get us the makings of a celebration.” She disappeared into the living-room.
Liddell sprawled comfortably in the armchair, squinted at the tiny black dots that crept along the winding ribbon of the roads below. He looked up as Muggsy re-appeared at the door, two glasses in hand.
“How's Jim taking it, Johnny?” She handed him a glass, sat on the arm of his chair.
Liddell shrugged. “He didn't say much. I guess all right. He was always preaching that newspaper work was no job for a woman anyway.”
“He never meant a word of it and you know it.” She sipped at her glass. “I get a bang out of the excitement and the pressure and all that, Johnny, but on the Coast it's more than that. I don't know how to explain it, but it's a terrific bang.”
“Jim'll get over it, baby.” He slid his arm around her waist, pulled her down onto his lap.
“I was wondering how long I was going to have to ridge my fanny on that arm before you'd get the idea.” She grinned up at him shamelessly. “What do you think about my going, Johnny?”
“It won't be the same old town, Muggs. I'm kind of used to having you around.”
Muggsy nodded. “That's what I thought. So I fixed it so's you could come with me.”
“Doing what?” Liddell scowled. “Changing the ribbons in your typewriter?”
“Give me credit for some ingenuity. I cooked up a job that you'll fit like a glove. Technical adviser.”
“On what?”
“Don't be so thick, Johnny. They're going heavy on crime and gangster stuff out there. That's why they've signed up reporters like Syd Boehm of the Journal and Martin Mooney of the old American and me and lots of others. They want the pictures to have some guts. You know more about that kind of stuff than any of us.”
“There's no future in it,” Liddell growled.
“You mean there is a future in being a walking shooting-gallery for twelve hours a day and a punching-bag for the D.A. the other twelve?”
Liddell grinned crookedly. “It's better than working.”
Muggsy reached up, kissed him. “You always were a screwball. You always will be. I guess you're right—it wouldn't be the same Johnny Liddell if you were to wear pin-striped suits and punch a clock.” She got up from his lap, walked over to the railing. “It won't be much fun out there without you. I guess it's like you said. I'm used to having you around.”
“I'll be around, baby, when you need me.” He got up, walked over to her, spun her around, kissed her hard. After a moment she pushed him away.
“I've got a funny feeling you'll be out there.” She grinned.
Liddell kissed her again. “You know?” he said finally. “I'm beginning to get a funny feeling, too.”