The Plaza Wonderland Club was situated on the second floor, over a hardware store. The entrance was down an alley, lit with neon lighting. They parked the car and walked up the alley and went in. At the top of the stairs tickets were being sold for the taxi-dancers. Duffy bought half a dozen, then they pushed aside the bead curtains and went into the hall.
There was nothing original about the place. It was dirty and shabby. The dance floor was small, and you had to step down to get on to it. Round the floor, tables were crammed together, and at the far end the girls sat behind a pen. Sam looked across the room at them and thought they were a pretty swell bunch.
There were very few people at the tables. Just a handful. They all looked up as Duffy squeezed himself past the tables and got on to the floor. They watched him cross the floor, with Sam behind him, and select a table against the wall, opposite the entrance. He sat down and Sam took the other chair.
The band of three were playing swing music without much enthusiasm. They plugged away, staring with vacant eyes into space.
“You call this a hot joint?” Duffy said.
“Maybe the depression’s hit ’em,” Sam said.
Duffy made frantic signs to a waiter, who came over to them with a flat-footed shuffle.
“Let’s have a bottle of rum,” Sam said.
“Yeah.” Duffy thought that a good idea. “Make it a bottle of rum.”
The waiter went off. Duffy said, “Take a look at this,” he slid the little note-book across the table.