He supposed he could find the room by himself from the smell alone.
Sure enough, she was sitting at her dressing table lit up with gas bulbs.
She faced him with a cross expression: “Do you know what you’ve got your hands on, mister?” she pressed. “Get in here and close the door. Me, *******. You’ve got your hands on me! I’m going to burn this slave camp to the ground! No one should be treated like that!”
“Calm down,” he said checking the hall for spies. “What are you going to do? ***** and Gomorrah all over again?”
Hitting her aching longing for lost past days she grabbed him and kissed him and bit him. She didn’t mean too it just always happened. He didn’t want to get caught doing something so he sat with her safely across the room. She glanced at herself in the mirror unhappy with what she saw.
“You work for me,” she informed him. “That means you do what I say.”
“That’s what it means,” he concurred.
“I want you to **** my husband,” she hissed.
“Hangin’s not my line.”
“What is your line,” she said haughtily, clawed fingers on her hips dripping a simmering red sauce from the tips. “Look, Samson, it’s not like I’m asking you to get a shave; I just want Horace dead. If you don’t do it I’ll do it myself.” She struck a match and delicately lit a green cigarette looking at him over the hot tip.
“I rob banks,” he said firmly.
“Honey, I already told you, you’re in the wrong town at the really wrong time. Every dime was looted out of that papier-mâché safe a long time ago. There’s not a dime in all of Atlanta. People are trading in their coloreds for IOUs. Why do think everyone’s so eager to see the place burn?” she said moving to the big window to face the night. “Look, Samson, I’ll make it worth your while. You do this for me and there’s nothing I won’t do for you.”