Lorain Rigas stood up and took up her hat and went to Shane.
They went together to the door, out into the hallway. Pedro leaned over the balustrade, called down to the little man at the outside door: “Okay.”
Shane and the girl went downstairs, past the doors of the dark and empty barroom, down to the street floor.
The slight, white-haired man and the dealer were whispering together. The slight man opened the door for them, said: “Good night — come again.”
They went out and got into the cab.
Shane said: “Valmouth.”
It had stopped raining for the moment, but the streets were still black and glistening and slippery.
He tossed the cigar out through the narrow space of open window, leaned back, said: “Am I a swell dick? — or am I a swell dick?”
Lorain Rigas didn’t answer. Her elbow was on the armrest, her chin in her hand. She stared out the window blankly.
“You’re not very appreciative.” Shane smiled to himself, was silent a little while.