Zircon motioned to the boys and they sat down at one of the tables. "It's too early for many customers, I suppose. But someone in charge must be here." He banged on the table, then lowered his voice. "How do you like the customer over there? A Portuguese sailor, from the look of him."
In a moment dingy curtains parted next to the bar and a man emerged. At a guess, he was Spanish.
"Bet he's got a knife a foot long, too, under that apron," Scotty whispered. "He's the type."
Rick nodded. Scotty was so right! The man's heavy-lidded eyes were set in a swarthy face whose most prominent feature was a broken nose, flattened probably with some weapon like a hard-swung bottle. A white scar across his chin indicated that it might have been a broken bottle. He was medium tall, and he wore a cap that might have been white once. An apron covered loose black Chinese shirt and trousers. Rick was glad big Hobart Zircon was sitting next to him.
The man walked to the table and greeted them in a surprisingly soft voice in which there was an accent Rick couldn't identify.
"You're a little early, gents. But I can take care of you. What'll you have?"
"Chahda," Zircon said flatly.
The man's eyes narrowed. "You better have a drink and sit tight."
"Why?" Zircon asked.
"You'll see. What'll you drink?"