“Them tourists sure go for this kinda trimmin’,” Strenk said scornfully. “They got a idee it’s like it was sixty years ago.”
“Isn’t it?”
Strenk guffawed and spat in the gutter. “’Tain’t no more a parcel of the ol’ times than a painted face is all of a sporty woman.”
Shayne chuckled and led the way into a large room crammed with crap layouts and roulette tables, chuck-a-luck games and faro dealers; with every game of chance besieged by players waiting to lay their money on the long odds against them. At two o’clock, an early hour for the night-long carousal, the crowd was riotously good-natured and still reasonably sober.
Shayne stayed close to Strenk as they made a slow circuit of the room, but neither Bryant nor his two gunsels were in evidence.
After a thorough search, Strenk said, when they reached the door again, “Didn’t see any of ’em in there.”
They repeated the procedure next door where a fraternal order was raking in charitable donations across the green baize, with the same negative result. When they were once again on the boardwalk outside, Shayne shivered and asked, “Any more joints open?”
“No more big ones like these city fellers’ve put up for the festival. Slot machines around most everywhere, an’ there’s a poker game runnin’ down to the pool hall. Small stakes, I reckon.”
“Bryant wouldn’t be interested in small stakes,” Shayne told him. “He’s a plunger.”
“Tell you what.” Strenk lowered his voice and tugged at Shayne’s sleeve. “I heard talk about a backroom game bein’ mebby open tonight. Not for no charity. Regular ol’ time gamblin’. It’s sorta secret-like, but I reckon you’re awright — not bein’ the real law.”