By Gil Brewer
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Extra info for A Taste for Sin
Well, you haven’t,” I told her. Excitement drove into me. “You haven’t thought out a damned thing. You can’t use his key. ” I wanted to stop. I wanted to go. Stop talking and thinking and go home. I couldn’t. My brain worked like mad. It had hold of this thing like a starved mongrel. It ran like a machine. It ticked one thing right off after another as easily as you please. My voice was loud, harsh. ” I said. “Yes, the law. That insurance company you mentioned, they have guys who are like fiends—madmen.
I mean, you know, when it’s really right. If I’m all messed up inside, I feel better then. I feel perfect. ” “All right” I could see her looking into the mirror and I knew who she was and what she saw from where she stood in the doorway of her bedroom, not so long ago, and what she felt, and I knew that for Felice, every day was another possible Sunday with her mother and father suddenly home from church... It didn’t take her long to dress. She skinned bare-assed into tight white Capri pants, curled her toes and thrust them into black pumps, expelled her breath, held it and yanked on a black jersey.
With him out there at his desk. I’ve stood there and smelt the money. You can really smell it. ” A million dollars. One million. Suddenly, I couldn’t help my mind beginning to work. “The money just doesn’t lie there on the floor like autumn leaves,” I said. “These are green leaves, darling, remember? Green leaves don’t fall off the trees. ” I tried to visualize a bank vault I got as close to it as the front door with a large combination and a handle. It was closed. Tight. She plumped down on the bed.