I could tell the goose was cooked the minute I entered her apartment, and not just from the smell, which was enough to make a man’s knees weak and his stomach growl in anticipation. There was a cooked goose sitting right there on a silver platter, surrounded by what looked like eyeballs plucked fresh from the skulls of dead Japs, like what some guys did for trophies in the war. They were some bloodthirsty bastards, but who can blame them? I’d have done the same.
“What’s with the slimy peepers?” I called out to Velda. She was in the kitchen making a racket and couldn’t hear me.
I prodded one with my fountain pen and it gave a little, so I leaned in for a sniff. You can tell a lot by smell. They were apples, apples covered in gore. It made no sense.
“Mike!” Velda exclaimed, “I’d almost given up on you. Where have you been?”
I didn’t want to tell her I’d spent the morning drinking, so I told her I’d been at a bar.
“Well you look like hell,” she said, taking my hat and coat. I could tell she liked what she saw.
I liked what I saw, too. She was wearing a pink apron over a blue dress, which hugged her curves like its life depended on it. Her generous breasts pushed against the fabric and it was only a matter of time before they busted out. Her legs, which stretched from her hips to her ankles, were in nylons so slick they could have been painted on. I couldn’t help but stare. She knew what she was doing, all right. It might be Christmas, but that girl could wear clothes any day of the year.
“Pour yourself a drink,” she offered, nodding towards a side table, “I have to finish the gravy.”
She disappeared back in the kitchen. I mixed us two highballs and drank both. Then I mixed two more and lit a cigarette.
“What’s with the apples?” I asked when she reappeared.
“What do you mean?” she cried, the hurt in her voice on naked display.
“What the hell did you do with them?”
“That’s not very nice, Mike,” she replied. “Why can’t you just be grateful for once?”
“It’s like they’re looking at me,” I said, and whipped out my rod.
“You never had baked apples before?” she retorted. Damn, that girl knew how to get under my skin. She’d make a fine wife someday.
“No, and I’m not fixing to start today,” I said, and shot three of them in quick succession. They exploded off the plate in a gelatinous spray along with some of the goose meat.
“Mike!” she squealed over the din of the blast from my trusty .45.
“The little cabbages are next,” I told her coolly, “I don’t care how cute they are.”
Velda shot me a look that any guy could tell was full of second thoughts and regret. It only made her more attractive. Did I look like a guy who ate vegetables?
I handed her the drink and she threw it in my face. Things were going swell.
“You’re some dame,” I told her. I blew a smoke ring and she gave me the eye. I’d never find a secretary as good as Velda, and she knew it. She knew all my ins and outs. The trouble was I could tell she wanted more, hence the spread.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling for my pack of butts. I could swear I’d rolled one in my shirt sleeve that morning, just in case I ran out. They must have been shaken loose when I blasted that hood at the bar whom I suspected of having been the mastermind of a criminal outfit responsible for some murders several years ago. It’d be all over the papers tomorrow. Shoot first, and ask questions later, is my motto, and it’s never let me down so far. The barman was all upset about it, complaining about being his uncle or something who’d just stopped off for a drink after playing Santa Claus all night for the kiddies. I tossed him a fin to smooth things over and he thanked me. I’m sentimental like that.
“Let’s chow down,” I said. I held out her chair, and she took her seat. Her smile said she’d forgiven me. She really was a pretty girl if you didn’t look too close. She handed me the carving knife, and I stabbed it into the remains of the shattered beast.
We sat there, her and I, fresh drinks in one hand, cigarettes in the other, and stared at the meat. Carols from the apartment next door mingled with sirens from the street.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” I said. “Just do me one favor, will you?”
“Anything, Mike, anything,” Velda whispered, her lips parted for a kiss.
“Never try cooking again.”
Grand Diplome
