Status Updates From Step Into My Parlor

Anne, I didn’t mean to scare you. I wouldn’t hurt you for anything in the world. And I’m sorry about last night. Hell, I don’t know what got into me. I promised I’d take care of you, told you I didn’t mess with married women, and damned if I didn’t come on to you like a pumped-up bull.”

“I’ve asked Anne to become my wife. In addition to her fortune, her blue blood will be an asset to me in my political climb. She’s a gracious hostess and malleable. As long as she has her charge accounts and her gallery to dabble in she’ll be happy. I’ll still control the estate.”
“What if she won’t marry you?”
“Then we’ll have to arrange a little accident. If she dies without heirs, everything comes to me.”

I spent 6 weeks in the hospital. The day I was released, I came hobbling home on crutches with a big cast on my leg to find that my wife and my business manager had cleaned me out. They’d liquidated everything and lit out together. All that was left in the house—which was only leased, I found out later—were my football trophies, the divorce papers, and Pinky.

We’ll make loans on jewelry, boats, guns, or just about anything you can name. Even your prize bull or your mother-in-law’s false teeth. Spider Webb’s Pawn Parlor. I’m on Richmond, just a couple of blocks behind the Galleria. Call if you’re bashful—or come on by. I’m open till nine every night. Spider Webb’s Pawn Parlor.