Shane said: “Uh-huh,” absently, went back along the hallway and up a flight of narrow stairs. At the top he turned into another hallway, crossed it diagonally to an open double doorway.
The room was large, dimly lighted. Perhaps fifteen or eighteen people, mostly in twos or threes, sat at certain of the little round white covered tables. Three more, a woman and two men, stood at the aluminum bar that ran across one corner.
Shane stood in the doorway a moment, then crossed the room to where Rigas sat waiting for him at a table against the far wall. Several people looked up, nodded or spoke as he passed; he sat down across the table from Rigas, said: “Bacardi,” to the hovering waiter.
Rigas folded his paper, leaned forward with his elbows on the table and smiled.
“You are late, my friend.” He put up one hand and rubbed one side of his pale blue jaw. Shane nodded slightly. He said: “I’ve been pretty busy.” Rigas was Greek. His long rectangular face was deeply lined; his eyes were small, dark, wide-set; his mouth was a pale upward-curved gash. He was in dinner clothes. He said: “Things are good with you— Yes?” Shane shrugged. “Fair.”
“Things are very bad here.” Rigas picked up his cocktail, sipped it, leaned back. Shane waited.
“Very bad,” Rigas went on. “They have raised our protection overhead more than fifty per cent.”
The waiter lifted Shane’s cocktail from the tray with a broad flourish, put it on the table in front of him. Shane looked at it, then up at Rigas, said: “Well...”
Rigas was silent. He stared at the tablecloth, with his thin lips stuck out in an expression of deep concentration.
Shane tasted his cocktail, laughed a little. “You know damned well,” he said, “that I’m not going to put another dime into this place.” He put down his glass and stared morosely at Rigas. “And you know that I can’t do anything about your protection arrangement. That’s your business.” Rigas nodded sadly without looking up. “I know — I know.”