"Ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa ... Ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa ... Ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa ... " went Walter's heart, skipping three beats before recommencing its regular, its steady tattoo within his broad chest.
"Er, hi ... Ah ... good evening, Miss Fanfarre. Are you all right? I came right over ..." the seasoned but now goggling veteran intoned slowly, deliberately, in a clandestine endeavor to recapture that characteristic manner of cool and suave professional deportment recognized by friend, foe, client.
"Yes." Lola breathed in, then out, then in again, her bosom heaving mightily beneath a top heavy trench coat cinched tightly about a waspish 20-inch waist. "That was Rocky Graziano. He just rang off. He said ... he said," the distraught living doll sighed through steamy, hot tears, "that if I ever wanted to see my baby, my Ricky, again ... I ... I'd better...." she broke off, swooning, collapsing weakly into the detective's sturdy and now happily available arms.