Baird slid his hand inside his coat. The touch of the Colt was reassuring. He watched the Negro carry the drinks across the room, and he could see the excitement of unexpected news in the Negro’s rol ing eyes.
The Negro set the drinks on the table. As he did so, he whispered, ‘A couple of dicks coming down the street, boss. They’re looking in every saloon.’
Baird drank the rye down in a hungry gulp, pushed the beer towards the Negro.
‘Got a back exit?’ he asked, without moving his lips.
The Negro nodded. Baird could see the sweat of excitement running down the ruts in the Negro’s black skin.
‘Through the far door, down the passage,’ the Negro said, and grinned delightedly as Baird flicked a dollar over to him.
‘Take care of the beer,’ Baird said, got up and walked without hurrying across the smoke-filled room to the door the Negro had indicated.
As he pushed open the door someone shouted, ‘Hey! Not that way, mister. That’s private.’
Baird felt a vicious spurt of rage run through him, and he had to restrain himself not to turn and go back to smash the face of the man who had called out. He didn’t look around, but stepped into a dimly lit corridor and walked quickly to the door at the far end.
A fat little Wop in an under-vest, his trousers held up by a piece of string, appeared from a room near by. He was sleepily scratching his bare, hairy arms, and his red, unshaven face was still puffed by sleep.