She stood at least five feet ten in her high-heeled slippers. They were small slippers, and I noticed that her ringless hands were small. The rest of her wasn’t. She was broad-shouldered, deep-bosomed, thick-armed, with a pink throat which, for all its smoothness, was muscled like a wrestler’s. She was about my age—close to forty—with very curly and very yellow bobbed hair, very pink skin, and a handsome, brutal face. Her deep-set eyes were gray, her thick lips were well-shaped, her nose was just broad enough and curved enough to give her a look of strength, and she had chin enough to support it. From forehead to throat her pink skin was underlaid with smooth, thick, strong muscles.
This Big Flora was no toy. She had the look and the poise of a woman who could have managed the looting and the double-crossing afterward. Unless her face and body lied, she had all the strength of physique, mind and will that would be needed, and some to spare. She was made of stronger stuff than either the ape-built bruiser at her side or the red-haired giant I was holding.
“Well?” she asked, when the door had been closed behind us. Her voice was deep but not masculine—a voice that went well with her looks.
“Vance ganged him in Larrouy’s. He took one in the back,” I said.
“Who are you?”
“Get him to bed,” I stalled. “We’ve got all night to talk.”
She turned, snapping her fingers. A shabby little old man darted out of a door toward the rear. His brown eyes were very scary.
“Get to hell upstairs,” she ordered. “Fix the bed, get hot water and towels.”
The little old man scrambled up the stairs like a rheumatic rabbit.