Daphne Swann was a piece of work, a piece of work alright. She could have a man, men actually, wrapped around her tiny finger, wrapped around tight and make them like it. Make them think it was natural. And she had all the equipment for the work, long dark hair, brown eyes, big ruby red lips, and a models’ figure, not a high fashion model’s figure, they were too skinny she said, but a department store model’s, something a man could hold onto, and hold onto dreams about. She said give her a few nights with a man, or rather a man with her, and he would do anything she asked, anything. Sometimes like with her boss, Four-eyes (real name Bruce Lang but with those bi-focals nothing else seemed to fit), she didn’t even have to spent the night, she could piece him off with a couple of, uh, provocative photos of her to sell to discerning customers and that was all he needed to be her lap dog. See she “worked” for Bruce as, uh, model and assistant in his photography shop and that was how she met Mister Abbott. Mister Abbott, a real catch, a meal ticket out of sleazy photos, men pawing modeling and the whole cheap Four-eyes gaff.