" You interested in the tour?" she asked, a little smile starting to play around those full, cherry-red lips. " I'm all yours," I replied," at least until 10 o'clock tonight." She definitely had the look of the young Lauren Bacall, the look and the husky voice. " So what happens then? You turn back into a Prince?" I couldn't see her eyes through the shades, but I was guessing they were green. " Ribbit," I said. She laughed, then immediately caught herself." Got a smoke?" she asked. I patted my pocket, then produced one of Martell's Gaul Oiseaus - flat, bent and broken in the middle. "The tour is 15 bucks." She ignored the cigarette I was still holding out, so it went back in my pocket. I found my wallet- intact. Apparently Martell hadn't been interested in the eight dollars, Ramses condom, lottery ticket or assorted forms of ID it contained. I handed her the bills. "you're seven short, Rockefeller," she said. Then I remembered the fedora, lifted the brim, and twelve dollars fell out onto the street. " There you are, Ma'am. Your fee in full, plus enough left over to start us off with a drink at the establishment of your choice." Now she truly smiled a gorgeous, fever-inspiring, let-the-sun-shine-in smile that drove all the wickedness from my heart, and made me want to settle down somewhere in Iowa with her. " How can I refuse?" she said.