FASHION AND CRIME
He crossed one leg over the other, and Coco lay on the soft rug at his feet, his head resting between his paws but his eyes followed every move Zagaff made.
He took a slow puff from his thick cigar, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling. “You know, Coco,” he began with a deep voice, “there was a time I didn’t know who my real friends were.” He tapped the ash into the glass tray beside him. “I had this guy once… he called me brother, and he swore loyalty. But when the trouble came, when the heat was on, he vanished. Just like that.” He shook his head with a smirk that didn’t even hide the bitterness. “That’s when I learned… real friends don’t run. They bleed with you.”