She went away.
I was half through my steak when the door opened again and a mountain of man came in. His face was round, fat and purple. His eyes small and reckless. He wore a tweed suit that looked as if he hadn’t taken it off since he bought it, and that had happened a long time ago. A battered slouch hat, slightly too small for him, rested on the back of his head. He chewed a dead cigar between small, even white teeth.
He stared at me, then came further into the room, closed the door.
“’Lo front page news,” he said.
“Hullo yourself,” I said, continuing to eat.
He took off his hat and combed his hair with a little ivory comb, grunted, put his hat on again and sat down in the plush arm-chair. It creaked as it took the strain.
“You certainly started something in this burg,” he said, taking the cigar from between his teeth and examining it through half-closed eyes. “I feel like a war correspondent again.”
“Yeah,” I said.
He looked at the table. “Didn’t she give you a drink?”
“I didn’t miss it,” I said.