There were seven or eight men at the bar, two white-aproned men behind it: a squat and swarthy Italian and a heavily built Irishman.
Shane went to the far end of the room, leaned on the bar and spoke to the Italian: “What’ve you got that’s best?”
The Italian put a bottle of brandy and a glass on the bar in front of him: Shane took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, held the glass up to the light, wiped it carefully. He poured a drink, tasted it.
He said: “That’s lousy — give me a glass of beer.”
The Italian picked up the glass of brandy, drank it, put the bottle away and drew a glass of beer. He skimmed off the foam, put the tall glass on the bar.
He said: “Seventy-five cents.”
Shane put a dollar bill on the bar, asked: “Kenny around?”
The Italian shook his head.
Shane said: “Where’s the phone?”
The Italian inclined his head towards a narrow door back of Shane. Shane went into the booth and called the Valmouth, asked for Miss Johnson. When the connection had been made, he said: “Hello, Lorain — what room are you in?... All right, stay there until I get back — don’t go out for anything — anybody... I’m down at Jack Kenny’s... Tell you when I see you... Uh-huh... G’bye...” He hung up and went back to the bar.