Rose went on brightly. “Let’s make it tomorrow,” she said, “I haven’t a date then. Suppose you pick me up here at nine o’clock. Gee! I am looking forward to that. Do make yourself smart. I must get Mr. Brownrigg to give you a haircut.”
Before he could protest she had called Brownrigg, who whipped a snowy white towel round him and, with a cold gleam in his eye, proceeded to give him the works. He had a haircut, a shampoo and a face massage and Brownrigg kept up such an incessant flow of chatter that he had no further opportunity of talking to Rose. After enduring what seemed to him a series of undignified tortures, he found himself in the street, three dollars poorer in pocket, and committed to the most expensive evening of his life.
However, he was grimly determined to see it through. With a furtive step he went into Izzy’s dress shop and spent a long time haggling over the renting of a tuxedo. By his usual threatening attitude he managed to obtain the complete outfit at a not too ruinous figure. Gingerly, he tried on an opera hat which Izzy insisted was the thing to wear. He stood before the long mirror and stared at his reflection. He couldn’t make up his mind whether or not he liked himself in the hat until he noticed Izzy hiding a grin behind a grimy hand, then he realized just how awful he looked in it. He took the hat off hurriedly and gave it back to Izzy. “Gimme a black felt,” he said, “an’ take that grin off your mug before I wipe it off.”
The clothes were carefully packed in a large cardboard box and, having paid a substantial deposit, Slug made his way home. He spent the rest of the day at the gymnasium loosening up for the evening’s fight, his mind more intent on Rose and the evening he had to face at the ‘Ambassadors’.
He took Pug O’Malley, one of his sparring partners, into his confidence. “Listen, Pug,” he said, offering a cigarette, “I gotta take a dame to the ‘Ambassadors’ tomorrow night.”
Pug looked at him suspiciously, suspecting that Slug was just blowing off hot air. “Huh,” he said, “so what?”
Slug scratched his chin uneasily. “You ever been there?” he asked hopefully.
Pug shook his head. “I ain’t a sucker,” he said. “That joint charges you every time you breathe.”
“This dame wants to go,” Slug explained.
“I’d tell her where she got off. Jeeze, that joint is so expensive F.D.R. won’t go there. I tell you when the dame takes your hat she charges you so much that you think she’ll give you your hat and herself when you leave—only she just gives you the hat.”