Aye, Barbara

Aye, BarbaraWhile waiting for Barbara Carrera to show up for lunch at a swell French restaurant in New York, I am eying this blonde at the top of the curved stairs. Some dame. Mickey Spillane would have loved her. Hair in a platinum pageboy, wearing a big, baggy, bright-red sweater over a body that just won't stop. Tight pants and heels. Only a heel would think what I'm thinking. Slowly, the blonde turns. Coming my way. Now her hand's on my arm. "Darling," she murmurs, not quite suppre...