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On the porch stood one lonely wooden rocker, and the afternoon breeze made the unpruned shoots of last year's poinsettias tap-tap against the cracked stucco wall.
A line of stiff yellowish half-washed clothes jittered on a rusty wire in the side yard. I drove on a quarter block, parked my car across the street and walked back. The bell didn't work so I rapped on the wooden margin of the screen door.
Slow steps shuffled and the door opened and I was looking into dimness at a blowsy woman who was blowing her nose as she opened the door. Her face was gray and puffy. She had weedy hair of that vague color which is neither brown nor blond, that hasn't enough life in it to be ginger, and isn't clean enough to be gray. Her body was thick in a shapeless outing flannel bathrobe many moons past color and design.
It was just something around her body. Her toes were large and obvious in a pair of man's slippers of scuffed brown leather. I said: "Mrs. Jessie Florian? Florian whose husband once ran a place of entertainment on Central Avenue? Mike Florian? Her eyes glittered with surprise. Her heavy clogged voice said: "Wha-what?
My goodness sakes alive. Mike's been gone these five years. Who did you say you was? Then with effort she unhooked the door and turned away from it. I ain't had time to get cleaned up yet," she whined. A large handsome cabinet radio droned to the left of the door in the corner of the room.
It was the only decent piece of furniture the place had. It looked brand new. Everything else was junk—dirty overstuffed pieces, a wooden rocker that matched the one on the porch, a square arch into a dining room with a stained table, finger marks all over the swing door to the kitchen beyond. A couple of frayed lamps with once gaudy shades that were now as gay as superannuated streetwalkers.
The woman sat down in the rocker and flopped her slippers and looked at me. I looked at the radio and sat down on the end of a davenport. She saw me looking at it. A bogus heartiness, as weak as a Chinaman's tea, moved into her face and voice. Then she tittered. I don't get cops calling on me much. I leaned back against something hard, felt for it and brought up an empty quart gin bottle.
The woman tittered again. He never got enough of them here. Any special redhead? A girl named Velma. I don't know what last name she used except that it wouldn't be her real one. I'm trying to trace her for her folks.
Your place on Central is a colored place now, although they haven't changed the name, and of course the people there never heard of her. So I thought of you. Not much. I guess they have to get her in order to touch it. Money sharpens the memory. You said you was a copper though. The feet in the man's slippers didn't move.
I held up the dead soldier and shook it. Then I threw it to one side and reached back on my hip for the pint of bond bourbon the Negro hotel clerk and I had barely tapped. I held it out on my knee. The woman's eyes became fixed in an incredulous stare.
Then suspicion climbed all over her face, like a kitten, but not so playfully. What's the gag, mister? Her eyes stayed on the bottle. Suspicion fought with thirst, and thirst was winning.
It always does. You wouldn't know her? I don't suppose you went there much. A coated tongue coiled on her lips. Just hold it careful, mister. This ain't no time to drop anything.
Just what you brought is all," she said. I poured her a slug that would have made me float over a wall. She reached for it hungrily and put it down her throat like an aspirin tablet and looked at the bottle.
I poured her another and a smaller one for me. She took it over to her rocker. Her eyes had turned two shades browner already. What was we talkin' about? I went over and stood the bottle on an end beside her. She reached for it. Who you say you was?
She read it with her tongue and lips, dropped it on a table beside her and set her empty glass on it. You ain't said that, mister. Here's to crime. I sat down and rolled a cigarette around in my fingers and waited. She either knew something or she didn't. If she knew something, she either would tell me or she wouldn't. It was that simple. Song and dance. Nice legs and generous with 'em. She went off somewheres. How would I know what them tramps do?
Help yourself to the whiskey—I could run out for more when we need it. I put my hand around my glass and swallowed what was in it slowly enough to make it seem more than it was. Okey, handsome. A guy that downloads me a drink is a pal. But when I like a guy, the ceiling's the limit. She was as cute as a washtub. I heard her fumbling steps going into the back part of the house. The poinsettia shoots tap-tapped dully against the front wall.
The clothes line creaked vaguely at the side of the house. The ice cream peddler went by ringing his bell. The big new handsome radio in the corner whispered of dancing and love with a deep soft throbbing note like the catch in a torch singer's voice. Then from the back of the house there were various types of crashing sounds.
A chair seemed to fall over backwards, a bureau drawer was pulled out too far and crashed to the floor, there was fumbling and thudding and muttered thick language. Then the slow click of a lock and the squeak of a trunk top going up. More fumbling and banging. A tray landed on the floor. I got up from the davenport and sneaked into the dining room and from that into a short hall. I looked around the edge of an open door.
She was in there swaying in front of the trunk, making grabs at what was in it, and then throwing her hair back over her forehead with anger. She was drunker than she thought. She leaned down and steadied herself on the trunk and coughed and sighed. Then she went down on her thick knees and plunged both hands into the trunk and groped. They came up holding something unsteadily. A thick package tied with faded pink tape. Slowly, clumsily, she undid the tape. She slipped an envelope out of the package and leaned down again to thrust the envelope out of sight into the right-hand side of the trunk.
She retied the tape with fumbling fingers. I sneaked back the way I had come and sat down on the davenport. Breathing stertorous noises, the woman came back into the living room and stood swaying in the doorway with the tape-tied package.
She grinned at me triumphantly, tossed the package and it fell somewhere near my feet. She waddled back to the rocker and sat down and reached for the whiskey. I picked the package off the floor and untied the faded pink tape. Newspaper stills. Not that them tramps ever got in no newspapers except by way of the police blotter. People from the joint they are. They're all the bastard left me—them and his old clothes. The men had sharp foxy faces and racetrack clothes or eccentric clownlike makeup.
Hoofers and comics from the filling station circuit. Not many of them would ever get west of Main Street. You would find them in tanktown vaudeville acts, cleaned up, or down in the cheap burlesque houses, as dirty as the law allowed and once in a while just enough dirtier for a raid and a noisy police court trial, and then back in their shows again, grinning, sadistically filthy and as rank as the smell of stale sweat.
The women had good legs and displayed their inside curves more than Will Hays would have liked. But their faces were as threadbare as a bookkeeper's office coat. Blondes, brunettes, large cowlike eyes with a peasant dullness in them. Small sharp eyes with urchin greed in them. One or two of the faces obviously vicious.
One or two of them might have had red hair. You couldn't tell from the photographs. I looked them over casually, without interest and tied the tape again. Every girl has a photo somewhere, if it's only in short dresses with a bow in her hair. I should have had it. I stood up with my glass and went over and put it down beside hers on the end table. A voice shouted behind me. I plunged ahead down into the right side of the trunk, felt an envelope and brought it up swiftly. She was out of her chair when I got back to the living room, but she had only taken two or three steps.
Her eyes had a peculiar glassiness. A murderous glassiness. She blinked twice and tried to lift her nose with her upper lip. Some dirty teeth showed in a rabbit leer. The Moose?
What about him? He's wandering, with a forty-five gun in his hand. He killed a nigger over on Central this morning because he wouldn't tell him where Velma was. Now he's looking for the fink that turned him up eight years ago. She pushed the bottle against her lips and gurgled at it. Some of the whiskey ran down her chin. I liked being with her. I liked getting her drunk for my own sordid purposes. I was a swell guy. I enjoyed being me.
You find almost anything under your hand in my business, but I was beginning to be a little sick at my stomach. I opened the envelope my hand was clutching and drew out a glazed still. It was like the others but it was different, much nicer. The girl wore a Pierrot costume from the waist up. Under the white conical hat with a black pompom on the top, her fluffed out hair had a dark tinge that might have been red.
The face was in profile but the visible eye seemed to have gaiety in it. I wouldn't say the face was lovely and unspoiled, I'm not that good at faces. But it was pretty. People had been nice to that face, or nice enough for their circle. Yet it was a very ordinary face and its prettiness was strictly assembly line. You would see a dozen faces like it on a city block in the noon hour. Below the waist the photo was mostly legs and very nice legs at that. It was signed across the lower right hand corner: "Always yours—Velma Valento.
She lunged but came short. She made no sound except thick breathing. I slipped the photo back into the envelope and the envelope into my pocket. Where is she? Beat it. Her hand opened and the whiskey bottle slid to the carpet and began to gurgle.
I bent to pick it up. She tried to kick me in the face. I stepped away from her. I stepped over to her side after a moment and put the flat bottle, now almost empty, on the table at her side. She was staring down at the carpet. The radio droned pleasantly in the corner. A car went by outside. A fly buzzed in a window. After a long time she moved one lip over the other and spoke to the floor, a meaningless jumble of words from which nothing emerged.
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Then she laughed and threw her head back and drooled. Then her right hand reached for the bottle and it rattled against her teeth as she drained it. When it was empty she held it up and shook it and threw it at me.
It went off in the corner somewhere, skidding along the carpet and bringing up with a thud against the baseboard. She leered at me once more, then her eyes closed and she began to snore. It might have been an act, but I didn't care.
Suddenly I had enough of the scene, too much of it, far too much of it. I picked my hat off the davenport and went over to the door and opened it and went out past the screen.
The radio still droned in the corner and the woman still snored gently in her chair.
I threw a quick look back at her before I closed the door, then shut it, opened it again silently and looked again. Her eyes were still shut but something gleamed below the lids. I went down the steps, along the cracked walk to the street. In the next house a window curtain was drawn aside and a narrow intent face was close to the glass, peering, an old woman's face with white hair and a sharp nose.
Old Nosey checking up on the neighbors. There's always at least one like her to the block. I waved a hand at her. The curtain fell. I went back to my car and got into it and drove back to the 77th Street Division, and climbed upstairs to Nulty's smelly little cubbyhole of an office on the second floor. He sat in his chair in the same attitude of sour patience.
But there were two more cigar stubs in his ashtray and the floor was a little thicker in burnt matches. I sat down at the vacant desk and Nulty turned over a photo that was lying face down on his desk and handed it to me. It was a police mug, front and profile, with a fingerprint classification underneath.
It was Malloy all right, taken in a strong light, and looking as if he had no more eyebrows than a French roll. Things look better. We got him cornered. A prowl car was talking to a conductor the end of the Seventh Street line.
The conductor mentioned a guy that size, looking like that. He got off Third and Alexandria. What he'll do is break into some big house where the folks are away. Lots of 'em there, old-fashioned places too far downtown now and hard to rent.
He'll break in one and we got him bottled. What you been doing? Maybe brown.
Oh yeah, funny. Remind me to laugh on my day off. He wouldn't ride a street car. He had money. Look at the clothes he was wearing.
He couldn't wear stock sizes. They must have been made to order. This place called Florian's was under the same name when it was a white night trap. I talked to a Negro hotelman who knows the neighborhood.
The sign was expensive so the shines just went on using it when they took over. The man's name was Mike Florian. He's dead some years, but his widow is still around. She lives at West 54th Place.
Her name is Jessie Florian. She's not in the phone book, but she is in the city directory. I took in a pint of bourbon with me. She's a charming middle-aged lady with a face like a bucket of mud and if she has washed her hair since Coolidge's second term, I'll eat my spare tire, rim and all.
Florian about Velma. You remember, Mr. Nulty, the redhead named Velma that Moose Malloy was looking for? I'm not tiring you, am I, Mr. Florian said she didn't remember Velma. Her home is very shabby except for a new radio, worth seventy or eighty dollars. Florian—Jessie to me—said her husband left her nothing but his old clothes and a bunch of stills of the gang who worked at his joint from time to time.
I plied her with liquor and she is a girl who will take a drink if she has to knock you down to get the bottle. After the third or fourth she went into her modest bedroom and threw things around and dug the bunch of stills out of the bottom of an old trunk. But I was watching her without her knowing it and she slipped one out of the packet and hid it.
So after a while I snuck in there and grabbed it. He lifted it and stared at it and his lips quirked at the corners. I could of used a piece of that once. Haw, haw. Velma Valento, huh? What happened to this doll?
Florian says she died—but that hardly explains why she hid the photo. Why did she hide it? In the end, after I told her about the Moose being out, she seemed to take a dislike to me. That seems impossible, doesn't it? I've told you the facts and given you the exhibit.
If you can't get somewhere on this set-up, nothing I could say would help. It's still a shine killing. Wait'll we get the Moose. Hell, it's eight years since he saw the girl unless she visited him in the pen. By the way, he was in for a bank job. That means a reward. Who got it? Maybe he knows who. That would be another job he would give time to. Sit down a minute. There's nothing more I can do. Apparently this Velma is dead, if Mrs.
Florian is telling the truth—and I don't at the moment know of any reason why she should lie about it. That was all I was interested in.
So I'll just run on home now and go about the business of trying to earn a living. Even big guys. He smiled.
When I was about a yard from the door, I went back and opened it again quietly and looked in. He was sitting in the same position, pushing his thumbs at each other.
But he wasn't smiling any more. He looked worried. His mouth was still open. He didn't move or look up. I didn't know whether he heard me or not. I shut the door again and went away. It showed him holding a smeared palette with a dirty thumb and wearing a tam-o'-shanter which wasn't any too clean either. His other hand held a brush poised in the air, as if he might be going to do a little work after a while, if somebody made a down payment.
His face was aging, saggy, full of the disgust of life and the thickening effects of liquor. But it had a hard cheerfulness that I liked, and the eyes were as bright as drops of dew. I was looking at him across my office desk at about four-thirty when the phone rang and I heard a cool, supercilious voice that sounded as if it thought it was pretty good. It said drawlingly, after I had answered: "You are Philip Marlowe, a private detective?
You have been recommended to me as a man who can be trusted to keep his mouth shut. I should like you to come to my house at seven o'clock this evening. We can discuss a matter. Do you know where that is? Well, Cabrillo Street is rather hard to find. The streets down here are all laid out in a pattern of interesting but intricate curves. I should suggest that you walk up the steps from the sidewalk cafe.
If you do that, Cabrillo is the third street you come to and my house is the only one on the block. At seven then?
Montemar Vista is quite a distance. Are you particular about the nature of the employment? Nice use of the subjunctive mood. The end of my foot itched, but my bank account was still trying to crawl under a duck. I put honey into my voice and said: "Many thanks for calling me, Mr. I'll be there. I thought Mr. Rembrandt had a faint sneer on his face. I got the office bottle out of the deep drawer of the desk and took a short drink.
That took the sneer out of Mr. Rembrandt in a hurry. A wedge of sunlight slipped over the edge of the desk and fell noiselessly to the carpet. Traffic lights bong-bonged outside on the boulevard, interurban cars pounded by, a typewriter clacked monotonously in the lawyer's office beyond the party wall. I had filled and lit a pipe when the telephone rang again. It was Nulty this time.
His voice sounded full of baked potato. Malloy went to see that Florian dame. My upper lip suddenly felt a little cold. I thought you had him cornered. Malloy ain't around there at all. We get a call from some old window-peeker on West Fifty-four.
Two guys was to see the Florian dame. Number one parked the other side of the street and acted kind of cagey. Looked the dump over good before he went in. Was in about an hour.
FAREWELL, MY LOVELY
Six feet, dark hair, medium heavy built. Come out quiet. That was you, wasn't it? Well, Number Two was the Moose. Guy in loud clothes as big as a house. He come in a car too but the old lady don't get the license, can't read the number that far off. This was about a hour after you was there, she says. He goes in fast and is in about five minutes only. Just before he gets back in his car he takes a big gat out and spins the chamber. I guess that's what the old lady saw he done.
That's why she calls up. She don't hear no shots though, inside the house. A nifty. The old lady misses one too. The prowl boys go down there and don't get no answer on the door, so they walk in, the front door not being locked. Nobody's dead on the floor. Nobody's home. The Florian dame has skipped out.
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So they stop by next door and tell the old lady and she's sore as a boil on account of she didn't see the Florian dame go out. So they report back and go on about the job. So about an hour, maybe hour and a half after that, the old lady phones in again and says Mrs. Florian is home again. So they give the call to me and I ask her what makes that important and she hangs up in my face. I didn't have any. After a moment he went on grumbling.
Jason Vale,: Chocolate Busters : The Easy Way to Kick It!
The Moose would be likely to go by there, of course. He must have known Mrs. Florian pretty well.
Naturally he wouldn't stick around very long. He would be afraid the law might be wise to Mrs. Oh, another nifty. It don't make a lot of difference any more now though.
I guess I won't bother. We really got him this time. We make him at Girard, headed north in a rented hack. He gassed up there and the service station kid recognized him from the description we broadcast a while back. He said everything jibed except Malloy had changed to a dark suit. We got county and state law on it. If he goes on north we get him at the Ventura line, and if he slides over to the Ridge Route, he has to stop at Castaic for his check ticket.
If he don't stop, they phone ahead and block the road. We don't want no cops shot up, if we can help it. That sound good?
What you doing on it—just in case? Why should I be doing anything on it? Maybe she would have some more ideas. Maybe you ought to kind of spend a little more time on her. Was your idea about the girl though. It came in since I saw you. A job where I get paid.
I'm sorry. I just have to work to earn a living. If that's the way you feel about it, okey. I held the dead phone and snarled into it: "Seventeen hundred and fifty cops in this town and they want me to do their leg work for them. After a while I went down to the lobby of the building to download an evening paper. Nulty was right in one thing at least. The Montgomery killing hadn't even made the want-ad section so far.
I left the office again in time for an early dinner. A group of pelicans was flying bomber formation just under the creaming lip of the waves. A lonely yacht was taking in toward the yacht harbor at Bay City.
Beyond it the huge emptiness of the Pacific was purple-gray. Montemar Vista was a few dozen houses of various sizes and shapes hanging by their teeth and eyebrows to a spur of mountain and looking as if a good sneeze would drop them down among the box lunches on the beach. Above the beach the highway ran under a wide concrete arch which was in fact a pedestrian bridge. From the inner end of this a flight of concrete steps with a thick galvanized handrail on one side ran straight as a ruler up the side of the mountain.
Beyond the arch the sidewalk cafe my client had spoken of, was bright and cheerful inside, but the iron-legged tile-topped tables outside under the striped awning were empty save for a single dark woman in slacks who smoked and stared moodily out to sea, with a bottle of beer in front of her.
A fox terrier was using one of the iron chairs for a lamppost. She chided the dog absently as I drove past and gave the sidewalk cafe my business to the extent of using its parking space. I walked back through the arch and started up the steps. It was a nice walk if you liked grunting.
There were two hundred and eighty steps up to Cabrillo Street. They were drifted over with windblown sand and the handrail was as cold and wet as a toad's belly. When I reached the top the sparkle had gone from the water and a seagull with a broken trailing leg was twisting against the offsea breeze. I sat down on the damp cold top step and shook the sand out of my shoes and waited for my pulse to come down into the low hundreds.
When I was breathing more or less normally again I shook my shirt loose from my back and went along to the lighted house which was the only one within yelling distance of the steps. It was a nice little house with a salt-tarnished spiral of staircase going up to the front door and an imitation coachlamp for a porchlight.
The garage was underneath and to one side. Its door was lifted up and rolled back and the light of the porchlamp shone obliquely on a huge black battleship of a car with chromium trimmings, a coyote tail tied to the Winged Victory on the radiator cap and engraved initials where the emblem should be. The car had a right-hand drive and looked as if had cost more than the house. I went up the spiral steps, looked for a bell, and used a knocker in the shape of a tiger's head.
Its clatter was swallowed in the early evening fog. I heard no steps in the house. My damp shirt felt like an icepack on my back. The door opened silently, and I was looking at a tall blond man in a white flannel suit with a violet satin scarf around his neck.
There was a cornflower in the lapel of his white coat and his pale blue eyes looked faded out by comparison. The violet scarf was loose enough to show that he wore no tie and that he had a thick, soft brown neck, like the neck of a strong woman.
His features were a little on the heavy side, but handsome, he had an inch more of height than I had, which made him six feet one. His blond hair was arranged, by art or nature, in three precise blond ledges which reminded me of steps, so that I didn't like them. I wouldn't have liked them anyway.
Apart from all this he had the general appearance of a lad who would wear a white flannel suit with a violet scarf around his neck and a cornflower in his lapel.
He cleared his throat lightly and looked past my shoulder at the darkening sea. His cool supercilious voice said: "Yes? Let me see, your name is—" he paused and frowned in the effort of memory. The effect was as phony as the pedigree of a used car. I let him work at it for a minute, then I said: "Philip Marlowe. The same as it was this afternoon.
Then he stepped back and said coldly: "Ah yes. Quite so. Come in, Marlowe. My house boy is away this evening. I went in past him and smelled perfume. He closed the door. The entrance put us on a low balcony with a metal railing that ran around three sides of a big studio living room.
The fourth side contained a big fireplace and two doors. A fire was crackling in the fireplace. The balcony was lined with bookshelves and there were pieces of glazed metallic looking bits of sculpture on pedestals.
We went down three steps to the main part of the living room. The carpet almost tickled my ankles. There was a concert grand piano, closed down. On one corner of it stood a tall silver vase on a strip of peach-colored velvet, and a single yellow rose in the vase.
There was plenty of nice soft furniture, a great many floor cushions, some with golden tassels and some just naked. It was a nice room, if you didn't get rough. There was a wide damask covered divan in a shadowy corner, like a casting couch. It was the kind of room where people sit with their feet in their laps and sip absinthe through lumps of sugar and talk with high affected voices and sometimes just squeak.
It was a room where anything could happen except work. Lindsay Marriott arranged himself in the curve of the grand piano, leaned over to sniff at the yellow rose, then opened a French enamel cigarette case and lit a long brown cigarette with a gold tip.
I sat down on a pink chair and hoped I wouldn't leave a mark on it. I lit a Camel, blew smoke through my nose and looked at a piece of black shiny metal on a stand. It showed a full, smooth curve with a shallow fold in it and two protuberances on the curve. I stared at it. Marriott saw me staring at it. Asta Dial's Spirit of Dawn.
Lindsay Marriott's face looked as if he had swallowed a bee. He smoothed it out with an effort. I've no doubt Well, what I wished to see you about is, as a matter of fact, a very slight matter indeed. Hardly worth bringing you down here for. I am meeting a couple of men tonight and paying them some money.
I thought I might as well have someone with me. You carry a gun?
Yes," I said. I looked at the dimple in his broad, fleshy chin. You could have lost a marble in it. Nothing of that sort at all. This is a purely business transaction. I'm not in the habit of giving people grounds for blackmail. I might say particularly to the nicest people. His aquamarine eyes had a faintly thoughtful expression, but his lips smiled. The kind of smile that goes with a silk noose.
He blew some more smoke and tilted his head back. This accentuated the soft firm lines of his throat. His eyes came down slowly and studied me. I don't know where yet. I expect a call giving me the particulars. I have to be ready to leave at once. It won't be very far away from here. That's the understanding. He snicked some dark ash from his cigarette. I had some difficulty making my mind up. It would be better for me to go alone, although nothing has been said definitely about my having someone with me.
On the other hand I'm not much of a hero. I shall be carrying a large amount of money and it is not my money. I'm acting for a friend.
I shouldn't feel justified in letting it out of my possession, of course. He shook it off and stared down at the place where it had been. Let's look at this job a little. You want a bodyguard, but he can't wear a gun. You want a helper, but he isn't supposed to know what he's supposed to do. You want me to risk my neck without knowing why or what for or what the risk is. What are you offering for all this? I started across the carpet towards the front door, but not very fast.
His voice snapped at my back. If that isn't enough, say so. There's no risk. Some jewels were taken from a friend of mine in a holdup—and I'm downloading them back. Sit down and don't be so touchy. Other kinds are valuable to some extent for the material, but chiefly for the workmanship on them.
Fei Tsui is valuable in itself. All known deposits were exhausted hundreds of years ago. A friend of mine owns a necklace of sixty beads of about six carats each, intricately carved. Worth eighty or ninety thousand dollars. The Chinese government has a very slightly larger one valued at a hundred and twenty-five thousand.
My friend's necklace was taken in a holdup a few nights ago. I was present, but quite helpless. I had driven my friend to an evening party and later to the Trocadero and we were on our way back to her home from there.
A car brushed the left front fender and stopped, as I thought, to apologize. Instead of that it was a very quick and very neat holdup. Either three or four men, I really saw only two, but I'm sure another stayed in the car behind the wheel, and I thought I saw a glimpse of still a fourth at the rear window.
My friend was wearing the jade necklace. They took that and two rings and a bracelet. The one who seemed to be the leader looked the things over without any apparent hurry under a small flashlight. Then he handed one of the rings back and said that would give us an idea what kind of people we were dealing with and to wait for a phone call before reporting to the police or the insurance company. So we obeyed their instructions. There's plenty of that sort of thing going on, of course.
You keep the affair to yourself and pay ransom, or you never see your jewels again. If they're fully insured, perhaps you don't mind, but if they happen to be rare pieces, you would rather pay ransom.
It's irreplaceable. She shouldn't have worn it out—ever. Protein quality depends on the amount of essential amino acids a food contains. Animal foods e. While all plant foods, except for soya, are incomplete proteins as they lack sufficient amounts of one or more of the essential amino acids. If two incomplete proteins are properly combined, called complementary proteins, they can make up a complete protein.
Fat is a concentrated source of energy. Found in, e. They are usually liquid at room temperature. Found in, eg olive oil. Found mostly in foods from animals, such as fatty meat, poultry with the skin and full cream dairy products. It can increase your LDL bad cholesterol levels, which may increase your risk of heart disease.
It is advisable to limit your intake of saturated fat. Because of this, food manufacturers have worked to lower trans fats found in foods. It is advisable to limit your intake of trans fat. Less than 1g of trans fat per g of food.Below the waist the photo was mostly legs and very nice legs at that. It was like the others but it was different, much nicer. We got him cornered. He stared solemnly at the barman, a thin, worried-looking Negro in a white coat who moved as if his feet hurt him.
Rembrandt in a hurry. Another shine killing. It always does. But strictly speaking, I hadn't had any business in a month. My house boy is away this evening.
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