Gilroy tried one of the doors in the hallway. It was locked. He tried another, opened it and switched on the light.
The room was small. There was a round table with a red-and-white tablecloth in the middle of the room and there were six or seven chairs and a couch. Gilroy pressed a button near the door.
Borg and Faber sat down and Kells stretched out on the couch. Beery studied the photographs — mostly clipped from “Art Models” magazines — on the walls.
A waiter came and Gilroy told him to get Sheedy.
Sheedy turned out to be a very tall, very yellow skeleton. Dinner clothes hung from his high, pointed shoulders as though the least wind would whip them out like a flat black sail. He nodded to Beery. He said: “I am very happy to meet you, Mister Kells.” His accent was very precise. Kells guessed that if the name meant anything special to him he was a remarkable actor.
Gilroy asked: “Was you at the fight, Vince?”
“Yes... I lost.” Sheedy smiled easily.
Gilroy giggled. “Hot dawg! It serves you right — nex’ time you know bettah.”
Sheedy raised his brows, nodded sadly.
“Hash us up a load of champagne—” Gilroy made a large gesture. “An’ send some gals back to sing us a song.”