August 16th, 10.15 p.m.
LITTLE JOE walked into the pool−room at the corner of 29th Street. He was pleasantly conscious of the sudden hush that greeted his entrance. Even the guys at the tables paused in their game and looked at him with interest.
He was something to look at now. His suit was heavily padded at the shoulders and its colour compelled a second glance. When Little Joe first saw it hanging in a window of a Jewish tailor his mouth watered. He’d never seen a suit quite like it. He knew there couldn’t be another on the streets that came anywhere near it, so he went inside and bought it. Also he was persuaded to buy a pair of yellow shoes, a bowler hat that only just fitted him and a necktie that, to say the least, was completely surrealist.
The barman wiped down the counter and smiled at him. “Why, Joe,” he said, “you’re lookin’ pretty good tonight.”
Little Joe adjusted his bowler. “Like it?” he said. “I bet you ain’t seen anythin’ quite like this, huh?”
The barman said truthfully he hadn’t. His tone was so dubious that Little Joe scowled. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with it, is there?” he said. “I gave a heap of jack for this outfit.”
The barman told him hastily that it was swell.
Little Joe relaxed a trifle. “Gimme some Scotch,” he said. “Not every guy could wear a suit like this,” he went on, pouring out a liberal shot; “you gotta have somethin’ to get away with it.”
A big fat guy, who had been playing snooker over the other side of the room, suddenly laid down his cue and came over. He owned a bunch of taxi−cabs that beat up a good business in the lower East side of the town. His name was Spade. Little Joe knew him well enough to nod to.
Spade was looking worried. When he got close to Little Joe he said, “I’ve been wantin’ to talk to you, buddy. Come over to the table, will you?”