Donovan shrugged. "You got me. And you know damn well nothing's going to happen on this case until it breaks from the outside."
"That's right." What he meant was a new angle coming from a stoolie. Or something opening up while we investigated Davis' background or Garver's.
But something new was added right there in the tavern. Very suddenly. A guy popped up from behind the bar and said, "Hello."
We whirled around and looked at him and Donovan snorted, "Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Tennyson Dalrymple."
"What kind of a label is that?"
The man came around from behind the bar. "I liked it—I took it. If it annoys you I'm sorry." But you could tell by the sneer on his face that he wasn't sorry at all.
He was a medium-sized unattractive figure of a man and yet you couldn't put your finger on just where the unattractiveness came from. He wasn't good looking but neither was he repulsive. He didn't have a superman's frame but neither was he a cripple nor a malformed freak. There was just something about him you took an instant dislike to and the dislike stayed with you.
And Dalrymple seemed to enjoy increasing the antagonism. He wore a habitual sneer and his voice had a cutting quality to it.
I said, "What the hell are you doing in here?"