From the look on his face, he wasn't going to offer, so she said, "Hello, Mr. Spade."
He pushed off from the wall and tossed the paper in front of her. It was a few days old. Perhaps it had taken this long for him to decide to come to the jail. She looked at the headlines: Archer and Thursby Murders Solved! In smaller type beneath it read, Murderess Behind Bars.
"Is that your real name?"
She didn't reach toward the paper. "I liked it best when you called me Angel. I liked to think I could be one, with you."
"Betty Jo." He drew out the last word before continuing in his usual clipped tones. "Doesn't suit you, but neither did Brigid O'Shaugnessy. Wonderly was a genius choice, though, I have to say. Gets a man in the right frame of mind before he even meets you. His secretary comes in and says, Mrs. Wonderly is here to see you, and the next thing he knows he's ready to believe anything Mrs. Wonderly says." He paused, but she didn't look up from the paper. "I wonder a lot of things about you, like whether you ever told me anything that was true."
"I deserve that," she said.
"You deserve more than what you're getting. Shame they won't execute a woman."
"Don't be so sure." Her answer came out before she could stop it, edit it into something more palatable. She was very afraid she was going to be put to death, but possibly more afraid of living in prison. She looked up at him, but he was shaking his head.
"You're still good. I'm sure you'll be able to plead for clemency. What do you have in your pocket, Angel?" He sneered out the name, and she cringed, but it only made him smirk. This was no longer the man who had had hated to turn her over to the police. In the last few weeks, he had hardened himself. Worse yet, he was so sure she was acting, when for once in her life, she felt completely exposed. It stung. He said, "You planning to plead your broken upbringing, or will you tell the jury how you were wronged by a man and left to your own devices, depending on other men who would only take you down the bad road?"
It was close to the truth, both in fact and that she hoped her description of Thursby's treatment of her would gain her sympathy for killing him. Archer, though, was another story. She planned to testify that he tried to blackmail her for Thursby'd death, taking his payment out in flesh. It wasn't true, but it might hold up, and there were no other witnesses. She shook her head, and laughed once, and suddenly she had her protective shell back in place. "Mr. Spade, I can't think of what you hoped to accomplish here."
"I guess I had to see you, one last time."
He had that look in his eye, one she knew well. He wanted her, perhaps not for the tenderness they'd shared in the past. No, he wanted something rough, and direct, and meant to punish her. She had her own plans along those lines. "Oh, I'm sure you'll see me in court. Won't you be called to testify?"
"Maybe, maybe not," he said, and stubbed out the cigarette.
She felt bolder. "Might I have one of those, please?" He was not a man to refuse a polite request, and however grudgingly, he gave her the cigarette, even lit it for her. She smoked it for a few moments, looking at the paper, reading the story under the sensational headlines. She thought he might leave if she ignored him, but he continued to lean, his arms folded. At last she looked up. He looked sad, and angry, and worst of all, pitying.
"I think that I can guarantee that you will have to testify, Mr. Spade." In that instant, as she spoke, she knew that if she was going down, she would drag him as far with her as she could. "I hoped to be your angel once, to have the chance to live better, and to be what you thought I was, but you took that away when you turned me over to the police."
"I know what you are, and you know why I had to do it."
"Yes, Mr. Spade, so you told me." She put out her cigarette, stood, and leaned with her hands on the table. The prison dress wasn't much, but as she bent over, she watched his eyes move to her cleavage. She didn't let her face show the bitter amusement she felt. She imitated the rhythms of his voice. "When a man's partner is killed, well, he's supposed to do something about it. I may have killed your partner, Mr. Spade," she continued, using the upper class speech she'd learned to imitate. It would give more impact to her next words. She said lightly, "I may have killed him, but you fucked his wife."
He stood up from his slouch in a stiff and jerking motion, like he'd been electrocuted. She nodded once, as regal as she could, and then turned her back to him, hiding her smile and knocking on the door to be let back into the prison, back into her cell. For the moment, she felt utterly free.