“I can’t stomach gin,” he said, regarding the girl crossly. “Why couldn’t it’ve been Scotch?”
“Well, you can always chew your trousers. You might start a new craze.”
The red-head had collapsed into Hoskiss’s arms, wailing with fright. He shoved her off.
“I don’t love you any more. You smell like hell.”
The sportsman with the automatic rifle began blazing away again. I peeped out.
The nigger drummer rolled his eyes at me. The two pairs of silk clad legs behind the table were still as death. The red-faced man over the other side of the room was glaring angrily at the torn shutters. He suddenly got to his feet, lurched across the room. He was very drunk. As he reached the shutters, the machine-gun started up. He was swept backwards by the hail of bullets. Everyone in the room heard the slugs socking into his body. He landed up on his back, blood ran out of him on to the polished dance floor.
“Real bullets,” I said, wriggling back under cover. “They’ve just killed a drunk.”
“Shocking waste of good liquor,” Hoskiss said, unmoved. He joined me at the end of the counter, looked at the dead man, shook his head. “I feel like letting off my gun now. Childish, isn’t it?”
The door to the dance hall suddenly pushed open and three men came in on their hands and knees. They all carried automatic rifles, all looked business-like.
“Shock troops,” Hoskiss said, beaming. “Now something ought to happen.”