The Negro doorman’s brass buttons gleamed in the light. He pulled open the door of the Buick, and another Negro stepped forward to drive the car to the garage.
I walked in under the blue canopy and found myself in a corridor fined on both sides with discreet private dining-rooms with numbers on the doors. At the other end of the corridor was an arch and beside it was the booth occupied by a blonde hat-check girl.
“Check, Mister?” she asked nasally.
I wolfed her over. She was wearing a tight little bodice in sky blue satin, open all the way down the front and laced together loosely by black silk cords. Apparently she had nothing on under the bodice. It was one of those outfits that keeps everyone warm except the wearer.
I gave her my hat and a friendly leer.
“That’s a nice view you have there,” I said courteously.
“The night some guy doesn’t make that crack I’ll drop down dead,” she returned, sighing. “It’s part of my job to have a nice view.”
I paused to light a cigarette. “A view to what?” I asked.
“No dice. That gag’s transparent with age.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t often come to a joint like this. I’m a home lover, and one gets kind of old-fashioned in fife’s little backstreams.”