A man came out of the kitchen, said “Hi” to the driver, came up to the booth. He was a tall man, about fifty-five, with a long crooked nose, a three or four-day growth of gray beard. He wiped his hands on his dirty gray-white apron.
Kells asked: “Do you know how to make a whiskey sour?” The man grinned with one side of his mouth, nodded. “Oke — and put some whiskey in it.” Granquist was rubbing powder onto her nose, holding her head back and looking into a small mirror which she held in one hand, a little higher than her head.
She said: “Me too — an’ ham and eggs.”
Borg had slid low in the seat. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. He asked, “Got any buttermilk?” without moving or opening his eyes.
The man shook his head.
Kells said: “Give him a whiskey sour, too — and give all of us ham and eggs. Fresh eggs.”
He raised his head, called to the driver: “Is that all right for you?”
A dance orchestra blared suddenly out of the radio. The driver turned his head, smiled, nodded.
Jake went back into the kitchen.
Granquist called to the driver: “See if you can get Louie Armstrong.”