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Teller Sup'vr takes drawer audits to an erotic level.

By four, all I'd learned was that Tony had often asked hookers to star in his films. There were a few who said he'd gotten a little rough with them, but it was nothing they couldn't handle. I needed a shower and some sleep.

A funny thing about getting older is that sometimes you can't sleep as long as you'd like. Angie seemed almost glad to see me when I walked into Phil's at two.

"You must be desperate. My coffee's not that good."

"Maybe it's not the coffee."

"Well, unless you're into toilets, it sure as hell isn't the atmosphere."

"Maybe I like eating breakfast with you at three in the morning? Ever think of that?"

Angie seemed stunned for a few seconds. She just looked at me like she was trying to decide what to say.

"Why would you like that?"

"You're a woman. That's a good start. You're a pretty woman. That's even better. I think I like you. That's three reasons. Need some more?"

"But I'm just a bartender in a lousy bar. You're -"

"I'm just a burnt out old cop who's been alone for a long time. I don't like being alone. It sucks."

"You don't look that old, and you don't look burnt out. You're respectable, and I'm..., well, I'm not."

"I'd like to be the judge of that, if you don't mind. Can I take you home again? I'll buy breakfast this time."

Angie locked up the bar at three-fifteen, and I drove us to the diner. We left at four-thirty. I was pleasantly stuffed with more pancakes and sausage. Angie'd had french toast. We did a lot of talking over the meal, and I was starting to like Angie more all the time. She seemed to enjoy being with me, too. When I walked her to the door of her apartment building, she slipped her arm in mine.

She checked her mailbox, then let us in and led the way to the second floor. The building wasn't fancy, and I imagined the apartments didn't rent for much. Angie stopped at number 206.

"Well, this is home, such as it is. Would you like to come in for a while?" She looked at the floor. "I could make us some coffee..., or something."

"I'd like that."

Her apartment was furnished in a hodgepodge of styles and there wasn't really much of that. The living room had a couch covered by a colorful throw, a matching chair, and a coffee table. Under the single window was a table with a typewriter and a chair. A couple pictures hung on the walls, and a worn, flowered rug camouflaged the beat-up wood flooring. The kitchen wasn't really a kitchen at all. It had a tiny stove and refrigerator, a sink, a few cabinets, and a bar with two stools, all tucked into one corner of the living room. Angie filled the percolator with water and coffee, and sat it on one of the stove burners. Blue flames licked at the bottom when she turned the knob.

"I'm going to get into some different clothes. Make yourself at home."

The couch was old, but comfortable. Mine had a soft spot in the center cushion, but Angie's seemed to have survived the years without breaking any springs. I looked at the coffee table. There were a couple of women's magazines and one picture in a small silver frame. The young girl with long brown hair who looked back at me would have been twelve or thirteen. Behind her was a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Angie.

"That's my mom. It was taken a lot of years ago."

Angie had changed from the tight top and short skirt to a sweatshirt and jeans. In the top and skirt, she had been a little hard looking, but pretty and erotic. The jeans and sweatshirt made her look small, vulnerable, and beautiful. I had a sudden urge to take Angie in my arms and hold her.

"You look just like her. The little girl is you?"

"Yes, but I wasn't a little girl. I was fifteen." Angie shrugged. "I was kind of a late bloomer."

"You've bloomed out just fine, in my opinion."

"Well, lately, I'm blooming in places I rather not."

"Not from where I'm sitting."

"You don't have to cram your butt in those little skirts or shorts every night, either. Now, it's cream and no sugar, right?"

Angie sat the cups on the coffee table and plopp

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