“You’re damn right. And as far as you’re concerned... No, wait a minute, guess I’ll have to vamp you to make up for this outburst. Apparently I can’t get tight without an escort. I... come on, let’s get out of this dump.”
We got up and started for the street door.
“Everything all right?” the manager asked suavely.
“Fine,” I assured him. “Two of the best olives I’ve ever tasted.”
“Come back any time you want more of the same,” he said.
“I might surprise you,” I told him.
We walked past the table where the salesman was talking to the girl with the grey eyes. She gave us a flicker of disinterested appraisal, then suddenly looked at me — hard. The grave man kept on talking.
Lucille didn’t show the faintest interest as she swept by.
Out on the street I said, “Well, Lucille, have a good time.”
She said impulsively, “Let’s go to a place where we can get a real drink. My mouth tastes like a cocktail shaker smells the next morning.”