“You bet,” he said. “But I only spend it on red-heads. You’ve arrived at the crucial moment. Have a drink?” The blonde said to me, “Want to dance?” “Go on and dance,” Hoskiss said. “I have my new-found friend to keep me warm.”
I sank my whisky, took the blonde on to the floor. My right hand rested on a bulge of warm flesh above her hip. She turned out to be a good dancer, once I got it into her head that I wanted to dance and not wrestle.
After we’d completed a couple of circuits of the floor, I said, “Who runs this joint?”
Under their heavy coating of blue-black mascara her eyes were surprised.
“What’s it to you?”
“Look, girlie,” I said patiently. “Never mind the cross-talk. I asked who ran this joint. Do you have to make a mystery of it?”
“I guess not,” she said. Her eyes went glassy, blank. I decided she didn’t find me particularly interesting. “Madam runs it. Is that what you want to know?”
“Madam who?”
She sighed. “Durelli. Satisfied?”
“I don’t need to take anything from you,” I said gently. “If you can’t work up a little enthusiasm, I’ll ditch you.”