“You got it, pal, you got it,” Slug said feverishly. “Just give the dame a good time.”
The man made a little note inside the folder. “When you are ready, monsieur, your table is number eighteen. Just through that door on your right. Everything will be to your entire satisfaction.”
He went away smoothly as if he were being drawn along on wheels.
Feeling that he had at least one friend in the camp, Slug took up his position rather impatiently behind the palm again.
Rose came out of the ladies’ room eventually, looking cool and beautiful. She seemed to fit in with the luxurious background.
Slug said, “Gee, I thought you’d got lost.”
She shook her head. “Have you arranged anything?” she asked, as if she quite expected that he had done no such thing.
More confident, Slug put a hot, heavy hand on her arm. “Sure,” he said, “I fixed all this up yesterday. We got number eighteen table. The eats are all ordered, so come on in an’ get the nosebag on.”
She moved her arm, trying to escape his touch, but Slug was grimly determined that she should begin to realize that this wasn’t going to be all her outing.
The splendour of the dining-room shook him considerably, but the head waiter was there to receive him, and under a battery of staring eyes Slug eventually sat down at a little table near the band.