I needed a drink. I needed a lot of life insurance. I needed a vacation. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun.

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

I don’t mind if you don’t like my manners. They’re pretty bad. I grieve over them during the long winter evenings.

They went along a balcony that looked down over the dining room and the dance floor. The lisp of hot jazz came up to them from the lithe, swaying bodies of a high-yaller band. With the lisp of jazz came the smell of food and cigarette smoke and perspiration. The balcony was high and the scene down below had a patterned look, like an overhead camera shot. (Nevada Gas)

He was a guy who talked with commas, like a heavy novel. Over the phone anyway.

The coffee shop smell was strong enough to build a garage on.

I wouldn't say she looked exactly wistful, but neither did she look as hard to get as a controlling interest in General Motors

I opened the other envelope. It contained a photograph of a girl. The pose suggested a natural ease, or a lot of experience in being photographed. It showed darkish hair which might possibly have been red, a wide clear forehead, serious eyes, high cheekbones, nervous nostrils and a mouth which was not giving anything away. It was a fine-drawn, almost a taut face, and not a happy one

From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.