“Say what?” Lefty demanded to know.
“What you just called me!”
“What did I call you?”
“I don’t know what it meant,” the girl admitted, “but if it was as bad as it sounded, my brother would make you eat those words, if he was here!”
Lefty yawned and stretched his arms, already tired from the effects of the bartender’s loaded drink. “Aw, be a reg’lar feller, kiddo, an’ give’sh a tune!”
“You like my voice?” the blonde asked, changing her tone to the ingratiating pitch so familiar with her type.
“Do I like it? I love it!” Lefty bellowed, much to the amusement of the white patrons seated at tables near by. “I think you have a better voice than—than—let me think. Oh, yeah! Better than Galli Curci!”
“Galli Curci?” the entertainer repeated as a puzzled expression lighted upon her face. “Who’s that guy, Galli Curci?”
“You don’t know old Galli?” Lefty asked in a high pitch of astonishment, and the blonde shook her head negatively. “Well, if you must know, let me enlighten you; Galli—old Galli Curci was the bes’ Russian bicycle rider in Brooklyn!”
A roar of laughter came from the tables occupied by the Americans. Lefty rose with much difficulty, bearing a silly grin and bowing to his encouraging audience. The girl at the piano moved about uncomfortably, the lines in her face hardening and her eyebrows knitting in a frown. “Say, bozo, I gotta feelin’ you’re trying to razz me!” she announced. “And I don’t mind tellin’ you, brother, I don’t like it!”