“LET’S DRINK?’
Derek Wingblade looked pained. “Well, girlie, that tenner happens to be twice the standard fee in New York here for a tip-off to a story. Any story! However—if this particular story runs—showing that it did get confirmed—run in and see me—at the Courier—and I’ll be generous—and add to this fee.”
“In a pig’s eye you will!” she said bitterly. “You’ll not even know me. Moreover, you’ll have the City Room bouncer run me out.”
“No,” he denied.
“Oh, yes,” she replied coolly. “I’ve been run out of places before, including newspaper offices. We-ell—if this is the sort of pay one gets for doling out tip-offs to hot stories, I’ll take another racket for mine!” And grumpily she stowed the ten away, somewhere in her bosom.
He twirled his cocktail glass musingly.
And the action seemed to bring her back. And she spoke. Softly and seductively. Any resentment she had felt seemingly gone.
“But come—” she was saying. Then adding—though just a bit hesitantly— “dear! Let’s drink up. We sit and talk shop—when we should be celebrating. You, your story—and me, meeting you.” She raised her glass. “Let’s drink to the health of ourselves both—a gal that’s really pretty poor—and a guy that’s rich. Hi-ho?”
Her glass was poised in mid-air.
“I’ll drink to that toast,” he said dryly, “providing you change that rich-guy stuff. For that, unfortunately, I am not.”
“Okay,” she said liltingly. “You’re not rich then! Hi-ho?”
“Hi’ho it is,” he countered. He raised his own glass. And downed it with hers.