Robert Holton sat in the middle. Carla had decided that if she had to spend an evening with Lewis she at least wouldn’t sit next to him.
She looked at Holton as they drove down Seventh Avenue. He was looking straight ahead. His well-formed, not very strong mouth was set in a straight line; he was trying to be firm now; he was trying to convince her that he was right in accepting Lewis’s invitation for them.
She sighed loudly so that she would be heard and understood. Then she looked out the window and examined the neon signs that broke the darkness with many colors. She liked the lights.
The taxicab stopped on a side street where a dozen or more signs advertised night clubs. They got out and Lewis paid the driver.
“Where is it?” asked Holton, looking about him.
Lewis pointed to some steps. “Right down there. I suppose it’s open; you know, there was some talk that the police might close it but I don’t think they will. Shall we go in?”
Carla could see that Holton was wondering what he meant when he said that the police might close it. She understood herself and she was rather pleased now: it would be a lesson for him, an experience that he needed.
Lewis led them down the steps and into the night club.
There were two large rooms: one light and garish, with a long bar, many mirrors and booths; the other was darker, with tables and, at one end, a small band on a small stage. They went into the darker room. The headwaiter recognized Lewis and was very polite to him; he showed them to a table near the stage.
“Isn’t this charming?” asked Lewis. “I think it has a wonderful atmosphere.” He grinned at Carla. She nodded.