A young man, with a humorous slant to his eyebrows and dark hair combed back from the forehead in neatly ornate scallops, pulled down the front of a reasonably clean white jacket and spread both hands on the bar, awaiting their pleasure.
“Mister Wine Clerk,” said Verba, using the [222] ceremonial title of his Tenderloin range, “we’re trying to find an old boy named Bateman—Burton Bateman, retired actor by profession. Ever hear of him?”
“Sure!” assented the barkeeper. “He’s part of the fixtures—Old Bird is; but he ain’t about now. To ketch him, you’ve come an hour late.”
“Lives round here somewhere, doesn’t he?”
“Search me,” said the young man succinctly. “I guess he don’t exactly live anywhere—not in a regular lodging house or anything like that. See? I never asked him—him being sort of touchy about his private affairs—but I guess he sleeps in some hole somewhere. He mostly does his scoffin’ here though—as a guest of the house.”
“Does his what here?” asked Verba.
“His scoffin’—his feedin’. See?” The young man flirted a thumb in the direction of the free-lunch counter.
“Oh! He eats here?”
“You said it! The boss—man that owns this liquor store—is a kind of an old-timer round here himself. I’ve heard him say he knowed The Bird away back yonder when the old theatre ’crost the street was runnin’ and things was breakin’ better for the old boy than what they do now. So he stakes him to a drink every now and then—Old Bird won’t take a piece of change, but he will take a drink—and he lets him browse off the free lunch all he’s a mind to.
“He comes driftin’ in here twicet a day [223] regular and fills up on chow for nothin’! But he’s been here already and left to-day—’bout an hour ago. I figure he won’t be back now till ’long about four or five o’clock.”