As she rides by

pocket holding a suitable scratcher indeed—a finely honed metal nail file—and before I could blink I had a gash opening up all down one cheek. Then she shifted her weight back and drove one elegantly booted foot right in that spot where a guy wants a boot least. OK, a guy doing it to a guy in a fight, like I’d done to the beach bum, that’s one thing, I was fighting for my life, after all, but what was she fighting for? Down went big boy, clutching. She stowed away the nail file, checked unnecessarily that her coiffure hadn’t been disturbed, then, hands on shapely hips, looked down at me.
    “Too bad,” she said. “You’ve got the size, you’ve got a certain style, and you’ve come up with some pretty good moves this past week or so. Loved the mice, by the way. Too bad at heart you’re just another pussycat.”
    “That’s not what my girlfriend thinks,” I managed to get out through clenched teeth. “Anyway, I been sick. Come around when I’m healthy if you really want a good licking.”
    She laughed, and knelt down to my level, which was low. Over her shoulder I spotted a beat-up, two-year-old Celica pull in next to the cab, which was still waiting. Evonne’s adorable face peered out of the car window at us. I closed my eyes and groaned. Ms. Garrison patted my cheek—the one that wasn’t gushing claret—leaned forward and pressed her full ruby lips to mine, and kept them there. Somewhere a car door slammed. Somewhere Gypsy dancers whirled in a furious fandango around a glazing campfire. Somewhere the last golden eagle soared high in a Navaho sunset. Somewhere a lone saxophone moaned. And somewhere, somewhere not so far away, an oversized pussycat of a private investigator moaned as well.
    After a moment Ms. Garrison straightened up gracefully, sailed out of the door, flashed the approaching Evonne a brilliant smile, climbed into the cab, then she was gone.
    Evonne entered and closed the door behind her. She gazed down at me. I gazed up at her. Blood continued to trickle down my cheek and spatter onto the carpet.
    “Peaches, I can explain everything,” I said. “Almost.”
    “Victor, with you,” she said, “almost is as much as a girl could ever dream of.”
    What a pretty compliment, I thought.
    “And don’t bother getting up,” she went on. “I know where you keep the first-aid kit, I ought to by now.” She headed out back toward the kitchenette. From a certain determination in her stride, I figured it was at least three-to-one on the iodine.

H ERE ARE THE complete and unabridged lyrics of the masterpiece I penned for Tom ‘n’ Jerry. They did not go wild about them, nor did they record them. More fools they, or it might be them, but it’s still fools.

    Keep in’ the Faith
    by Victor Daniel

    Well, I’m sittiri and I’m sweatin’ in a tin bar near the border,
    Sharin’ a bottle of cold Carta Blanca with my memories.
    Once in a while I buy a beer for the fat bartender,
    Once in a while the fat bartender does the same for me.

    I dunno what he’s waitin’ for, it could be just mañana,
    Or a car with a drunken millionaire that’s gonna stop one day.
    There’ll be a beautiful, bored blond gringa who’s lookin’ for a change of pace,
    And she’ll say, “Vamos, amigos!” and they’ll all drive away.

    But I don’t need no crazy dream, I know what I’m waiting for,
    And that’s a $200 check from my old pal Samuel D.
    That’s got to be as safe as U.S. money in the bank,
    ‘Cause we been drinkin’ buddies since we met in ’63.

    See, we was workin’ in this run-down, one-pump garage out on Highway 104,
    About ten miles northeast of Tucson, and the very last I heard
    He’d bought himself a truck or two and he’d found himself a Cherokee girl—
    I know he’ll send the dinero the very day he gets the word.

    See, I was makin’ this quiet little run from Tampa through Nogales,
    I was supposed to meet a Mexican gent in a field near Monterrey .
    I had this little package they’d requested me to deliver —
    It wasn’t strictly legal, but hell, tell me what is today?

    But somebody musta had a loose mouth, or else they couldn’t hold their juice,
    Or it coulda been some dirty little stoolie after a piece of the reward,
    ‘Cause the federates flagged me down, then they tore up my old Desoto,
    And two hours mas tarde they found it taped beneath the runnin’ board.

    Well, we settled out of court, ‘cause that’s the Mexicali way,
    But after that I wasn’t