In Over Her Head by Elsie Russell - Parnasse.com

"Oh, ith it rillee?" Loulou said in mock amazement.
"How old do you think she is?" she asked him.
"Eightheen?"
Penny snapped back to and forced a chuckle. At least someone
with some sense. A most unlikely candidate, but she could've kissed
him for it. "Good guess, Louie!"
The urchin sneered and pranced back to the kitchen.
Penny asked Ula for another Absinthe.
The door buzzed, a voice crackled out the intercom. "It's Ira,
lemme up, it's freezing out here."
A minute later a porky man huffed into Dick's loft, clutching an
expensive brown briefcase.
After pecking Ula on the cheek, he started pacing around the
room, his bulging eyes fixed on to Ula's fuzzy head.
"Congrats, baby. Okay, Ula darling, so you gotta a new gig?
What's the plan?"
Sandro and Dick gathered around, and Penny stood up.
Sandro's jumpy psychedelic tie of tiny silver and red Penrose tiles
flapped around his open jacket with every move
After briefly shaking hands with everyone Ira Kress looked
around for a suitably important chair, then gave up and settled his bulk
into one of the titanium sentinels and lit a cigar. Sandro eased down
next to Ula on the trophy couch and Dick arranged himself on its
ovoid ottoman. Penny went for one of the red Eames chairs, it wasn't
much better than the chaise, but at least her feet touched the floor, and
she needed that right now.
"Have a drink, Ira," Dick offered, with a nod up to Loulou.
"Sure, Dick. Scotch, on the rocks. Love the new mod look. So
this is the famous Noguchi? You made the papers, you know. I see you
got new help, where's the old Portuguese woman?"
"Inez passed away, such a shame, but Lolo is fabulous, isn't
he?"
Ira's myopic eyes crinkled to assess the houseboy, the plucked
brows, spandex jeans, and the two nymphet breasts that incubated
under his tight white T shirt.
"And who's this?" he asked, singling out Penny with his cigar.
"Dr Penelope Bell, from MIT, the composer," Sandro said in
his clipped, professional voice.
Ula leaned into his shoulder and cooed, "Our composer."
Imperceptibly, Sandro cringed.
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