At twenty-five minutes to eleven, Louie left the Casino and sauntered around to the stage door.
He was in a jubilant, excitable mood. By tomorrow morning he would have something to tell his pals, he thought, as he stood under the light immediately above the stage door.
Louie always boasted of his conquests, and for the first time in his life he felt he would really have something to boast about.
He looked at his wrist-watch. He was a minute or so early. Well, she had better not keep him waiting. A guy could be land or rough with a dame; she better not give him any reasons to be rough.
Tux, looking short and squat in the shadowy darkness, walked down the alley, his hands in his coat pockets.
“Hi, Louie,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Louie eyed him irritably. Where the hell did this punk spring from? he wondered.
“I’m wailing for a wren,” he said airily. “Give me some room, Tux. You’re in the way.”
Tux smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, and Louie suddenly felt uneasy.
“You’re not after Gilda Dorman, are you?” Tux asked.