offence so he went back to staring out of the window. Fat Eugene had returned to the seedy hop-musk of his pool hall and the street was now empty… No, there was some guy hanging around in the front doorway of Verbinski's Pawn Shop. He was wearing a fedora and raincoat, a regular Philip Marlowe, Tom thought.
"Perhaps he's on the trail of a red-hot dame," Tom muttered in his best Bogart impression, "surviving on rye and smarts."
"What you talking about now?" Terry called. "And wipe your goddamn chin – you're dribbling on the upholstery."
"Nothing, just watching some guy…" but "Marlowe" had gone and Tom's attention was elsewhere, watching Elise – a folded copy of the T imes over her wild, electric-shock red hair – running down the street towards them. Tom yanked his brown suit into shape; it had a habit of looking as if it was trying to worm its way off him. He tried to work his hair into respectability but as usual it refused, sitting like whipped ice-cream on the top of his head.
"Oh, she's on her way, is she?" Terry said with a smile. "I'll get the grill warmed up."
Elise burst through the door in a shower of rain and cussing. "Jesus, but it's biblical out there," she roared, heading over to the bar. The sodden newspaper hung from her hand like shed lizard skin. She dripped on Terry's carpet but he sure as hell didn't care; maybe the damn thing would grow more luxuriant if she watered it enough.
"Grill's on, give me five and there'll be patty melt and fries to take the edge off the cold," he said, walking out back to kick the fat-fryer into life.
"Hey, Elise," Tom offered from his booth, hoping to hell he'd made it sound non-committal rather than the bark of a desperate man.
"Hi, Tom," Elise replied, "good night?"
"I've been shaking down the jazz and blues as surely as you've been shimmying those curves of yours. I dare say neither of us really got the appreciation we deserved."
"I dare say." Elise joined him in his booth, just as Tom had hoped, dragging a snail trail of rain across the leatherette from the damp ass of her coat.
"You want that whistle of yours wetting?" Tom asked, nodding an inebriated forehead towards the bar and the rows and rows of seductive possibilities it offered.
"I'll take a Martini, something long, cold and strong as hell – I'll leave the rest up to your creative imagination."
"I am a veritable Manet of the Martini, a Hopper of the Highball."
"Then refresh your thirsty nighthawk, Tom, she's had a damn long night as always."
Tom threw a wink in Elise's direction. Catching his reflection in the window, he thought it looked more like the facial twitch of a man who had just been shot. He really ought to keep the expressions to a minimum; he was long past the point of being able to pull them off.
Terry was whistling along to the hiss of sizzling hamburger and fries. It was the only tune he knew.
"Hey, Terry," Tom asked, "fix the lady a drink, would you? Something to wash down the melted Velveeta and cockroach thigh she has forthcoming."
"Hell with that, I keep a clean kitchen as well you know. Fix it yourself, but mind…" Terry brandished a spatula with conviction "…don't get carried away, I'll be watching you pour."
"Pour… poor me." Tom shuffled his way around the bar hatch and began to throw gin, vodka and vermouth at crushed ice and lemon zest. There was something about his coordination that improved when it came to going through such automatic functions as playing a piano or mixing a cocktail. They were the sort of moves that, unlike walking or trying to look cool, came naturally to him. He throttled the shaker, ice-cold condensation biting into his palms through the chilly chrome, and poured some over one lucky bastard of an olive.
"Now that's a whistle-wetter." Tom nodded his approval, pouring one for himself, just to be sociable.
Terry appeared from the kitchen with a hot
"Perhaps he's on the trail of a red-hot dame," Tom muttered in his best Bogart impression, "surviving on rye and smarts."
"What you talking about now?" Terry called. "And wipe your goddamn chin – you're dribbling on the upholstery."
"Nothing, just watching some guy…" but "Marlowe" had gone and Tom's attention was elsewhere, watching Elise – a folded copy of the T imes over her wild, electric-shock red hair – running down the street towards them. Tom yanked his brown suit into shape; it had a habit of looking as if it was trying to worm its way off him. He tried to work his hair into respectability but as usual it refused, sitting like whipped ice-cream on the top of his head.
"Oh, she's on her way, is she?" Terry said with a smile. "I'll get the grill warmed up."
Elise burst through the door in a shower of rain and cussing. "Jesus, but it's biblical out there," she roared, heading over to the bar. The sodden newspaper hung from her hand like shed lizard skin. She dripped on Terry's carpet but he sure as hell didn't care; maybe the damn thing would grow more luxuriant if she watered it enough.
"Grill's on, give me five and there'll be patty melt and fries to take the edge off the cold," he said, walking out back to kick the fat-fryer into life.
"Hey, Elise," Tom offered from his booth, hoping to hell he'd made it sound non-committal rather than the bark of a desperate man.
"Hi, Tom," Elise replied, "good night?"
"I've been shaking down the jazz and blues as surely as you've been shimmying those curves of yours. I dare say neither of us really got the appreciation we deserved."
"I dare say." Elise joined him in his booth, just as Tom had hoped, dragging a snail trail of rain across the leatherette from the damp ass of her coat.
"You want that whistle of yours wetting?" Tom asked, nodding an inebriated forehead towards the bar and the rows and rows of seductive possibilities it offered.
"I'll take a Martini, something long, cold and strong as hell – I'll leave the rest up to your creative imagination."
"I am a veritable Manet of the Martini, a Hopper of the Highball."
"Then refresh your thirsty nighthawk, Tom, she's had a damn long night as always."
Tom threw a wink in Elise's direction. Catching his reflection in the window, he thought it looked more like the facial twitch of a man who had just been shot. He really ought to keep the expressions to a minimum; he was long past the point of being able to pull them off.
Terry was whistling along to the hiss of sizzling hamburger and fries. It was the only tune he knew.
"Hey, Terry," Tom asked, "fix the lady a drink, would you? Something to wash down the melted Velveeta and cockroach thigh she has forthcoming."
"Hell with that, I keep a clean kitchen as well you know. Fix it yourself, but mind…" Terry brandished a spatula with conviction "…don't get carried away, I'll be watching you pour."
"Pour… poor me." Tom shuffled his way around the bar hatch and began to throw gin, vodka and vermouth at crushed ice and lemon zest. There was something about his coordination that improved when it came to going through such automatic functions as playing a piano or mixing a cocktail. They were the sort of moves that, unlike walking or trying to look cool, came naturally to him. He throttled the shaker, ice-cold condensation biting into his palms through the chilly chrome, and poured some over one lucky bastard of an olive.
"Now that's a whistle-wetter." Tom nodded his approval, pouring one for himself, just to be sociable.
Terry appeared from the kitchen with a hot
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