"Let's go," said Ava.
"That's Mac," he said. It was. Cliff Maculay was sitting before a large card table playing Red Dog. Before him he had a large pile of blue chips, and standing at his elbow watching the pile was a dark-eyed Venusian girl, who swayed langorously to the strains of the music coming from the dance floor next door.
"Would you like to make a hundred?" asked Ava.
"Who do you want killed?"
"Pick up that woman from Mac."
"What's the pitch?" he demanded; "a hundred ain't enough to get me killed."
Ava looked him in the eye. "This is the end of your line," she told him. "If you expect any fun tonight, you'll be better off trying for her, because you're out of a girl friend and Maculay is going to be swapping women shortly."
He looked at Ava, compared her against the Venusian girl in a brazen mental listing of their charms, and repeated a statement made earlier: "Luckier than hell, Mac."
Ava went over to the Red Dog table and stood so that her hip brushed Maculay's arm. Cliff looked up in annoyance, but the frown ceased as he saw her. "Hello," he said cheerfully.
It was obvious that he did not know her, and it was equally obvious that the Venusian girl did not care for the competition. "How are we doing?" she asked.