“Don’t she feel kinda small about a man paying for her clothes?” asked Carl, slipping into Petersen’s language.
“Well, she said no at first but I told her that she didn’t have to give me nothin’ except what she wanted to,” said Petersen. “I’m a straight guy with women, I am.”
“Do you love her?” asked Carl, wondering how Petersen would take the question.
He looked at Carl with a heavy disapproval.
“Say, cut out the kiddin’,” he answered. “D’ya lo-o-ove her”—he mimicked the words with astonished derision—“none of that soft stuff for me. She’s a good-lookin’, wise girl, and if I don’t see anyone I like better I’ll prob’ly marry her, but she ain’t got no ropes tied to me. You bet not! There’s plenty of fish in the pond, Jack.”
“Yes, if you’ve got the right kind of bait,” answered Carl, deliberately falling into the other man’s verbal stride, “but be sure that someone else isn’t fishing for you at the same time. Hooked from above, while not watching, you know.”
“You’re a regular kidder, ain’t ya,” said Petersen, who dimly felt that Carl was masking the sly wisdom of sexual pursuits and respected him for it. “But say, Katie’s got a nice friend—Lucy’s her name. She’s a little thin, not much curve to her, but some men like ’em that way. An’ she’s kinda quiet too, don’t talk much, but I don’t care for them when they’re always laughin’ and cuttin’ up. Then they’re usually tryin’ to get on your good side an’ work you for somethin.’ Would ya like to meet this dame? I don’t know just how far she’ll go but she might come across if you work her right.”
“Sure, lead me to her,” said Carl, inaudibly laughing to himself.
“Alright, I’ll make it for eight tuhmorrow night. The four of us’ll go somewhere.... Well, one more an’ we’ll beat it, Jack.”
Glancing swiftly ahead, Carl saw that this engagement would demand a certain sum of money and he wondered how he could obtain it since he would not be paid for his present work until the end of the week. While he stood, grasping this little perplexity, he noticed that a man at his left had placed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, in payment for a drink, and that the man was immersed in a violent argument with a friend, with his back turned to the bar. The bartender was at the other end of the counter, and after a glance at Petersen, who stood dully peering into his empty glass, Carl whisked the bill into one of his coat pockets. Then he quickly prodded Petersen’s shoulder.