Slug scowled at him. “No,” he said, “get out in the front of the shop. I want to talk to this dame.”
Brownrigg hesitated, and then said: “That’s all right, Mr. Moynihan, you go ahead.”
Slug sneered at him. “Sure it’s all right,” he said. “Get movin’, Clippers, an’ don’t come back till I’ve gone.”
Brownrigg went into the shop meekly enough, but he left the saloon door open an inch or two. He didn’t like the look on Slug’s battered face.
Rose Hanson came from behind the curtain, wheeling a little table on which was set out all her manicure paraphernalia. When she saw Slug, her face hardened.
She was a swell-looking dame with curves in the right places and thick auburn hair. “Oh, it’s you,” she said disdainfully. “What do you want?”
Slug looked at her admiringly. “Just fix my nails, baby,” he said, “and I’ll tell you some bedtime stories.”
She shook her head. “You don’t want a manicure,” she said. “You want a pneumatic drill with hands like yours.”
Slug flexed his huge hands and grinned foolishly. “Listen, baby,” he said, “these mitts earn me a nice slice. I thought maybe they oughtta have a birthday present. Come on, give ’em a treat.”
She pulled a stool up close to him and sat down, then she crossed her leg, showing him a neat knee. Slug looked openly at her shapely legs. “That’s a grand pair of stems you got there,” he said. “You’re certainly a red-hot number.”