"Coffee."
"Better still! Viola keeps a percolator on—but I'll have her make it fresh. Usually—it's like French pot-au-feu—goes on forever."
"You've doubtless—moved—?"
"Moved! We're Manhattan's most displaced persons!" She gave me a high number on the West Side.
There was never a rush hour at Hattie's. But two a.m. was what might be called the peak. It embarrassed no one: she had plenty of sitting rooms. In any case, most of the customers knew one another—and knew one another as clients.
A white marble lobby. An elevator with much gilded fretwork. It was operated by a Negro with an exceedingly noncommittal face. Only one door in the hall on the top floor. A good-sized apartment building, I thought, as I pushed the bell and heard the chimes; hence a good-sized bordello. The colored girl who had answered the phone answered the door, keeping the chain attached. I told her my name.
The foyer was dim and modernistic. Two halls branched from it. I could see doors along both—and hear music.
"Jes' follow me, please."
She said it all night.
The perfumes mingled, the way they do. It is a woman's medley—expensive or cheap—with no other detectable difference. One door was open. Two girls sat there—pale, straight hair that fell to a sharp, sculptured point over a book and a pair of shimmering, nylon legs.