"Ginger," she replied.
He took a sharper look. A pale, somewhat freckled face, topped by a glory of fading red hair, thrust itself rather wistfully forward for his inspection.
"Go 'way!" he waved, disconsolately. "Go 'way. I don't wanna dance!"
She smiled with the passive resistance of her kind. "Neither do I," she assented. "Let's just sit here and talk."
"Don't wanna talk!" he threw back, sullenly.
"All right," she agreed; "anything you say… Got a cigarette?"
He drew out a box and she selected one. The waiter hovered about significantly. Fred ordered coffee … Ginger took Whiterock. They were silent. The music crashed and banged and whinnied, and the air grew thick with the mingled odors of smoke and stale drinks and sex.
Finally Fred leaned forward and said in a whisper, "Tell me—has a snaky-looking dub come into this joint?"
Ginger swept the room with her glance. "In a gray derby and a green tie?"
"Yes."