NEVER TRUST A GOOD-TIME GAL
Kincaid looked down at her owlishly.
“You had enough?”
“Oh, it ain’t that,” he said chivalrously. “Just feelin’ kinda groggy.”
“How about a drink then?”
He heard what she was saying, but he found that he couldn’t answer. The room was beginning to revolve very slowly. Suddenly it turned upside down and Grace was no longer leaning against him. She was floating toward the door like a cottonwood seed drifting in the wind. He followed her with his eyes and saw her heading into the main room. He turned his head a little to watch as she joined Tilly by the door. They were wriggling into their clothes. Then Silvie floated up behind them, her hennaed hair streaming out behind her and a bulky leather satchel in one hand.
Kincaid heard laughter. Even though it seemed to come from a long way off there was no mistaking the triumphant ring to it.
He nodded wisely to himself . . . or thought he did.
They had been drugged. Joe Mobley’s money was floating out the door. It would probably keep on floating all the way to Chicago if the girls could catch a train soon enough.
“Thievin’ little bitches,” Kincaid mumbled in his sleep. “They won’t get away with this . . .”