She'll Hate Me Tomorrow

If someone had told Gamble Clancy Ross that a stenographer—just out of secretarial school, at that—could start a gang war, he would have grinned and suggested an immediate sojourn in a mental institution for the prognosticator.

Even if that same someone had described the chick in question—blond, shaped like a Don Juan’s dream girl and measuring 38-28-38—he still would have suggested a tonic for tired blood and mental fatigue.

And yet that’s exactly what happened. Stella Parsons just happened ...