Shayne felt strong, but he feigned weakness. He bumped against the wall, righted himself as he neared the gates.
The doorman said, “Beat it, mister. You know all I got to do is whistle.”
Shayne hit him in the mouth before he could purse his lips to make the signal that would bring Donk and Johnny to his aid, dropping the man to the walk with his threat unfinished.
Pushing the gates open, he strode forward under the brightly striped canopy, looking neither to right nor to left. Three stone steps led into a thickly carpeted entrance hall. A tall man wearing a white mess jacket with a napkin over his arm hurried forward from an archway which led into a large, brilliantly lighted dining-room.
Shayne shook his head at the mess jacket and went to the left where the clink of glasses and boisterous laughter indicated a bar. Men and women in formal attire stopped drinking and laughing to stare at his disheveled wet hair and puffed lips when he entered the cocktail lounge, their eyes traveling down over his rumpled, bloodstained clothes.
Striding up to the bar, Shayne announced, “Just been in accident and need a drink.”
The patrons, their curiosity satisfied at the statement, turned back to the serious business of liquor and sex. A bald-headed bartender jovially inquired after his needs.
“A bottle of Martell cognac and an empty glass.”
“Yes, sir,” the man answered.
Shayne poured liquor into the glass and hunched his shoulders forward, resting both elbows on the bar, caressing the glass between his big hands to warm it. He sipped slowly, his nostrils expanding and twitching as the clean, pungent aroma drifted upward.