“Show it to and fro.” I told him why.
“Why wouldn’t they tip us off?” He answered himself. “Because the dopes still think of protection men as derby hats on fat heads.”
“See what you can do without a derby,” I told him. It was five to nine when I sauntered into our photo-muraled cocktailery. A dozen people at the saddle-leather bar — about normal for during theater time Saturday night. Some were guests I recognized. One couple I didn’t know were sixtyish and gray on top; they were having a high old time, probably an anniversary of some kind. There weren’t any unattached femmes at the bar or at the tables under the illuminated pictures of jockeys being tossed off their nags’ necks or over hedges.
Mickey came over, smoothing his black lacquered hair, patting the paunch under his starchy jacket. “Yes, sir? What’ll it be, sir?” He was careful not to recognize me until he made sure I didn’t mind.
“Rum sour, Mickey.” I glanced down the bar at the only person in the place who didn’t seem to fit.
She was dressed expensively enough; the demure gray dress was a neat contrast to the maroon hat and shoes; the big straw-brim item might have been a Carnegie, Hattie. There were too many diamond and emerald rings on her fingers.
Thing that struck me most about this girl was the way she tucked her feet under the stool. Both toes hooked over and behind the rungs, crossed over each other. That plebeian grip isn’t seen much in our exclusery; more often in the dog-wagon set, where a gal gets used to catching the pillar of a counter stool with her toes.
The man with her fitted into our horsey decor all right. He was about thirty-five, maybe younger. Deep lines slashing down at sharp angles from his long thin nose to the corners of his wide, humorous mouth, plus hollows under his eyes, made it hard to guess him closer. He had a deeply cleft chin; he was so homely he was attractive. He was balding a bit in front; what there was of his hair was rusty-iron, gray and reddish-orange mixed.
His double-breasted gabardine was de rigueur; his gray suede shoes spoke of affluence; the single ring he wore was a star sapphire such as many racing men go for in a big way.
He seemed to be paying more attention to his drink than to his companion. But he had her giggling at what he was saying; I couldn’t hear him.