For—
I've got those turn of the century—
Turn of the millennium—
Blues!
As the listeners softly hissed their applause, Phil stopped a few feet away from Mitzie's table. She was with three young men, but they sat away from her pointedly, as if she were ostracized.
The three young men, without lifting a finger, showed more of the mystic toughness that seemed to be the specialty of the joint than any other people in it. They had the quiet dignity of murderers. When Mitzie turned to see what they were looking at, she sprang up with the delighted cry of "Phil!" though there was alarm in her eyes. She wasn't wearing her evening-mask. She walked over to him and slapped him stingingly with her left hand.
He whipped up his hand to slap her back, hesitated, and barely managed a sketchy pat. She glared at him but turned back with a bright smile, saying gayly, "Fellows, Phil. Phil, meet Carstairs, Llewellyn, and Buck."
Carstairs had a head that bulged at the top like a pear. He wore thin bangs, the effect of which was not effeminate. He remarked lazily to Mitzie, "So this is the clown you blabbed tonight's plans to."
Llewellyn looked very British and was very black. He said, "You also seem to have told him we'd come here later. Puzzles me why he didn't bring the police."
Buck was hawk faced and had a Kentucky accent that sounded as if it had been learned from tapes. "P'lice never tried to pick up anybody in the Tan Jit, yit," he observed. "Not here, Otie!" This last remark was addressed to a gaunt, mangy dog which thrust its head from under his legs and snapped at Phil.