The two men who had been standing at the door suddenly moved through the crowd and stood each side of him. They smiled at him, but the smile didn’t reach their eyes.
The Cuban said softly, “You’d better come, I think.”
Fenner shrugged and moved with him. They crossed the room, went out into the lobby and into a small room on the left.
Noolen was walking up and down, his head on his chest, and a big cigar clamped between his teeth. He glanced up at Fenner as he came in.
The Cuban shut the door, leaving the other two men outside.
Fenner thought Noolen looked in better shape. He seemed cleaner and his tuxedo suited him.
Noolen said, “What are you doin’ here?”
“This is public, ain’t it? What’s bitin’ you?”
“We don’t have any of Carlos’ mob in here.”
Fenner laughed. He went over and sat in a big leather arm-chair. “Don’t be a mug,” he said.