Jake stuck his head through the door, said: “He don’t come on till eleven.” His head disappeared.
Kells grinned at Granquist.
She said: “Let’s dance.”
“Don’t be silly.” He glanced down at his leg.
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Her face was suddenly serious, concerned. “How is it?”
He shook his head without looking at her, was silent; after a minute or so he watched Jake come in with four tall glasses on a scarred tin tray.
Jake put the tray on the table, spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Turn ’er down to ten — that’s KGPL, the police reports to the radio cars.” He went back toward the kitchen. “Last night they held up the gas station down on the corner an’ we knew it here, right away. I went downstairs an’ saw the bandit car go by — sixty miles an hour.” He jerked his head violently up and to the left, an unspoken “By Crackey!”
The driver turned the dial, then came to the booth and took one of the tall glasses. He sat down on the table directly across the narrow room, said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” drank.
It was quiet a little while, except for the hiss of frying eggs in the kitchen.
Then the radio hummed slowly, buzzed to words: