“One of the lucky ones,” Jerry Chen said when we got to Al’s restaurant. “Jesus Christ.”
In Al’s restaurant, where the tables were empty this time on a Sunday night, Pansy looked first at Chen, then, accusingly, at me, but I barely noticed the contempt in her eyes: the glasses, the red hat, the down vest were all gone; in their place was a different woman.
In a black mini skirt and a cropped black sweater that left her midriff bare, she made her way slowly across the room. She wore high-heeled leather boots that reached up to her thighs. Her hair was loose on her shoulders and tendrils of it curled over her forehead. A thin red silk scarf was tied around her long neck. She was ravishing, all cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes and she knew how to walk, how to play to men, even a pair of assholes like Chen—she made it clear how much she loathed him—and me. She was a chameleon.
Lifting her slender arm, she fingered the small silver cross on a chain around her neck, then gestured at Chen.
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