I can't do nothing for you either, Billy. You know that. None of us can. You got to understand that as soon as a man goes to help somebody, he leaves himself wide open. He has to be cagey, Billy, you should know that as well as anyone. What could I do? I can't fix your stuttering. I can't wipe the razorblade scars off your wrists or the cigarette burns off the back of your hands. I can't give you a new mother. And as far as the nurse riding you like this, rubbing your nose in your weakness till what little dignity you got left is gone and you shrink up to nothing from humiliation, I can't do anything about that, either.
My motto? Don't trust someone who is just as cagey as yourself." "What kind of detective are you?' 'A lousy one and proud of it. I write, remember?' She looked down at her hand and laughed. 'Berretta doesn't make lighters.' "Why I was a writer! My life revolved around fiction. I could make something up" "She looked down at her hand and laughed. 'Berretta doesn't make lighters.' "So they're not Tolstoy, they're a little shorter... Okay, okay a lot. Go ahead, read my mystery series anyway." "A detective has their boundaries especially me. So mine shifted occasionally... okay a lot" 'Beat it, Buster. My temper and this mace have a hair trigger.' 'Interference could be lethal.' I got right up in his face, hissing, 'Don't push me, I'm hormonal.' I'm not really a lousy detective, just rough around the edges.
Peggy A. Edelheit