I grabbed a champagne bottle by the neck and hurled it.
The bottle missed his head, but struck against the concrete wall. The champagne, spurting out from the broken bottle, drenched his face and had him blinking hard.
He kept his right hand under the lapel of his coat. His left hand angrily brushed his eyes.
I charged across the room at him.
Behind me, I heard the crash of a door being kicked open, the sound of heavy steps on the stairs.
The manager of the cocktail lounge suddenly thought better of it. He jerked his right hand out from under his coat.
Sergeant Sellers and Bertha Cool came barging down the stairs.
“What the hell’s coming off here?” Frank Sellers asked, his face white as a sheet.
“Where’s the woman?” I asked.
“I tell you, she went back up the stairs,” the manager said.