Slug watched with round eyes the casual way these guys tossed dollars into a plate on the counter as each received a check. Finally his turn came and the girl looked at him with a friendly smile as she gave him his number. Slug thought she’d make a nice tumble, and put his dollar in the plate without any regrets.
“Some joint,” he said hoarsely, “sortta puts the White House in the shade, don’t it?”
The girl gave him a quick, puzzled glance, smiled again automatically and went on giving out numbers.
Slug drifted back towards the ladies’ room and concealed himself as best he could behind a large clump of palms that swayed a little from a huge brass tub.
He hadn’t been standing there more than a few minutes, when a tall, distinguished-looking man, holding an elaborately designed leather folder, approached him. “You are taking the dinner, monsieur?” he asked, bowing to Slug, who gave ground.
“What the hell’s it to do with you what I’m doin’?” Slug asked fiercely.
The man remained quite unperturbed. “You will pardon me, monsieur,” he said quietly, “I am merely here to make your visit a pleasant one. Is monsieur alone? Has monsieur booked a table?”
It dawned on Slug that this guy was trying to help him, and he clutched his arm as if he expected him to lose patience with him and go away.
“Listen, pal,” he said urgently, “you’re just the guy I was lookin’ for. I gotta dame here, see? She’s class, do you get it? I want this little business to go off good. I got the dough, an’ I want you to fix the rest for me. O.K.?”
The man bowed. “Certainly, monsieur,” he said; “you would like to leave all the arrangements to me?”