The sink-board held a few dirty dishes and there were two glasses on the table in the living-room. The half inch of water in the bottom of each glass could have been left by ice cubes that had melted during the night. The ash-trays were filled with cigarette stubs and the open window hadn’t been able to get the atmosphere of stale tobacco and liquor fumes out of the room. There was a copy of VARIETY on the table, and another one on the sofa. The Sunday newspapers, still folded, were also on the sofa, as though Elgin had picked them up straight after he had answered Bertha Cool’s telephone call but had decided not to read them.
He was, however, shaved, and his hair was combed. Glossy black hair, combed straight back.
“Sit down,” he said, “make yourself at home. The place is a mess. I had a couple of drinks last night before we rolled in.”
I nodded, and sat down.
He was around fifty, hollow-cheeked, pinch-waisted, fairly broad-shouldered. He had high cheek-bones, and his black eyes were spread far apart. He had a trick of lowering the lids over those eyes, tilting his head back and looking out from half-closed eyes. It gave him a peculiar expression of not giving a damn about anything.
I said, “I suppose you have to keep pretty late hours.”
“It’s pretty close to daylight before I get home.” The weariness of the voice showed how he felt about it.
“I understand you put on quite a show at the Cabanita,” I said.
He made a little gesture of disgust, drew deeply on the cigarette, blew out twin streams of smoke from his nostrils, said, “It’s a job.”
“You own the place?”