“He ain’t here.”
“I’m a friend of Dickinson’s — I want to see him.”
The window closed and the door swung slowly open; Kells went into a small room littered with newspapers and cigarette butts. The man who had looked at him through the window patted his pockets methodically, silently.
Another man, a very dark-skinned Italian or Greek, sat in a worn wicker chair tilted back against one wall.
He said: “Your friend Dickinson — he is very drunk.”
Kells said, “So am I,” and then the other man finished feeling his pockets, went to another heavy door, opened it.
Kells went into a very big room. It was dark except for two clots of bright light at the far end. He walked slowly back through the darkness, and the hum of voices grew louder, broke up into words: “Eight... Point is eight, a three-way... Get your bets down, men... Throws five — point is eight... Throws eleven, a field point, men... Throws four — another fielder. Get ’em in the field, boys... Five... Seven, out. Next man. Who likes this lucky shooter?...”
Each of the two tables was lined two deep with men. One powerful green-shaded light hung over each table. The dice man’s voice droned on: “Get down on him, boys... Ten — the hard way... Five... Ten — the winner — All right, boys, he’s coming out. Chuck it in...”
Kells saw Dickinson. He was standing at one end of one of the tables. He was swaying back and forth a little and his eyes were half closed; he held a thick sheaf of bills in his left hand.
“Seven — the winner...”