Bat said: “Aw, the hell with you! I’m sick of you too.” His harsh Brooklyn accent was unmistakable.
I opened the door, went in.
8
A girl, wearing black lace underwear, had her back to me as I entered. Her legs and feet were bare, her blonde hair piled untidily to the top of her head. A cheap imitation tortoise-shell comb failed to capture the straggling ends of hair from her neck. She was standing by a table on which was the remains of a meal and several bottles of whisky.
She turned swiftly as she heard the door open, stared at me. All I could see of Bat was his foot and leg. The girl stood directly in front of him. She was sharp-featured and she stared at me with sultry eyes, one of which was puffed and the other had been socked several days ago. She also had a bruise on her throat and her hand held a tall cool glass of amber fluid.
“Beat it,” she said to me. “You’ve picked the wrong room.”
“I want Bat,” I said between my teeth. “Get out of the way.”
She saw the gun, screamed, dropped the glass.
Bat recognized my voice, grabbed the girl around her waist, crushed her to him. He peered over her shoulder at me, grinned.
“Hello, bub,” he said. His brutal face was the colour of mutton fat.