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She came into my office, and for a moment, I wasn't even sure it was a girl: A large hat, the kind dock workers generally wore, was pulled low over her face, exposing only unremarkable unpainted lips, and her greasy coveralls looked like they had just climbed out from under an Edsel, probably mine; but when she half-turned to close the door, twisting the coveralls against her body and revealing the figure God (in his infinite wisdom) had given her, I smiled, leaned back in the chair, and mentally braced myself for what I expected to be the best story I'd heard since Terry had told me how much Ed Keenan had bet on Max Schmeling.
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