where he had hit me burned hotly.
We stared at each other for a long moment, then he stepped back and yelled at Candy, “Get this punk out of here before I kill him!”
Candy grabbed my arm and swung me out of the room and pulled the door shut. He let go of me and stepped back, his red, weathered face angry and scared.
“I told you, didn’t I, you damned fool?” he said. “Now you’ve really started something. Get the hell out of here!”
I touched my face.
“I’d like to meet that ape up a dark alley. So long, Sergeant. At least I don’t have to work for him.”
I walked down the passage, through the double swing doors and on to the street.
It was nice to see the sun was still shining and the men and women coming back from the beach were still looking like human beings and still acting like them too.
Chapter 4
I
S am’s Cabin, at the unfashionable end of St. Raphael’s promenade, was a big wooden shack of a place, built out over the sea on steel piers.
There was a parking lot and though it was only five minutes to six o’clock, there were some thirty cars already parked, and not a Cadillac nor a Clipper among them.
The parking attendant was a fat, elderly man, who smiled cheerfully as he told me that the parking was free.
I walked the length of the narrow jetty and into the bar room. The bar ran the width and one side of the room. There was also a snack bar equipped with twelve electric spits, which at this moment were busily roasting twelve fat chickens.
About eight or nine men were propping themselves up against the bar, drinking beer and dipping into the dill pickle bowl.
Beyond open double doors at the far end of the room I could see a railed verandah, shaded from the evening sun by a green awning. There were tables out there, and that’s where the crowd was. As I was hoping to do some serious talking with Fulton, I decided I’d stay inside and away from the crowd. I went over to the doors and looked the crowd over to make sure he hadn’t already arrived, then, not seeing him, I picked a corner table in the bar room by a big open window and sat down.
A waiter came over, wiped the table and nodded at me. I told him to bring me a bottle of Black Label, some ice and two glasses.
A few minutes after six o’clock Tim Fulton came in. He was wearing a pair of baggy grey flannel trousers and an open-neck, blue shirt. He carried his jacket over his shoulder. He looked around, saw me and grinned. Then he came over, his eyes on the bottle of Black Label.
“Hey, there, buster,” he said. “So you’ve got the flag waving already? Couldn’t you wait for me?”
“The bottle’s not open yet,” I said. “Sit down. How’s it feel to be a free man?”
He blew out his cheeks.
“You don’t know anything until you’ve been through what I’ve been through. I should have my head examined for staying so long with him.” He flicked the bottle with his fingernail. “You reckoning to uncork this or do we just sit and admire it? “
I poured him a drink, dropped a chunk of ice into his glass, then made myself one. We touched glasses as boxers will touch gloves and nodded to each other. We drank.
After my interview with Creedy and then with Katchen, the ice-cold whisky certainly hit a spot. We lit cigarettes, sank further down in the basket chairs and grinned at each other.
“Pretty nice, huh?” Fulton said. “If there’s one thing I like better than anything else it’s to sit where I can listen to the sea and drink good whisky. I don’t reckon a man could wish for anything nicer. Okay, there are times when a woman can take the place of pretty well anything, but when a guy wants to relax he doesn’t want a woman. I’ll tell you why: women talk: whisky doesn’t. This is a bright idea of yours, buster.”
I said I was full of bright ideas.
“I’ve another bright idea,” I went on. “After we’ve had a few drinks, it might be an idea to try some of that chicken cooking
We stared at each other for a long moment, then he stepped back and yelled at Candy, “Get this punk out of here before I kill him!”
Candy grabbed my arm and swung me out of the room and pulled the door shut. He let go of me and stepped back, his red, weathered face angry and scared.
“I told you, didn’t I, you damned fool?” he said. “Now you’ve really started something. Get the hell out of here!”
I touched my face.
“I’d like to meet that ape up a dark alley. So long, Sergeant. At least I don’t have to work for him.”
I walked down the passage, through the double swing doors and on to the street.
It was nice to see the sun was still shining and the men and women coming back from the beach were still looking like human beings and still acting like them too.
Chapter 4
I
S am’s Cabin, at the unfashionable end of St. Raphael’s promenade, was a big wooden shack of a place, built out over the sea on steel piers.
There was a parking lot and though it was only five minutes to six o’clock, there were some thirty cars already parked, and not a Cadillac nor a Clipper among them.
The parking attendant was a fat, elderly man, who smiled cheerfully as he told me that the parking was free.
I walked the length of the narrow jetty and into the bar room. The bar ran the width and one side of the room. There was also a snack bar equipped with twelve electric spits, which at this moment were busily roasting twelve fat chickens.
About eight or nine men were propping themselves up against the bar, drinking beer and dipping into the dill pickle bowl.
Beyond open double doors at the far end of the room I could see a railed verandah, shaded from the evening sun by a green awning. There were tables out there, and that’s where the crowd was. As I was hoping to do some serious talking with Fulton, I decided I’d stay inside and away from the crowd. I went over to the doors and looked the crowd over to make sure he hadn’t already arrived, then, not seeing him, I picked a corner table in the bar room by a big open window and sat down.
A waiter came over, wiped the table and nodded at me. I told him to bring me a bottle of Black Label, some ice and two glasses.
A few minutes after six o’clock Tim Fulton came in. He was wearing a pair of baggy grey flannel trousers and an open-neck, blue shirt. He carried his jacket over his shoulder. He looked around, saw me and grinned. Then he came over, his eyes on the bottle of Black Label.
“Hey, there, buster,” he said. “So you’ve got the flag waving already? Couldn’t you wait for me?”
“The bottle’s not open yet,” I said. “Sit down. How’s it feel to be a free man?”
He blew out his cheeks.
“You don’t know anything until you’ve been through what I’ve been through. I should have my head examined for staying so long with him.” He flicked the bottle with his fingernail. “You reckoning to uncork this or do we just sit and admire it? “
I poured him a drink, dropped a chunk of ice into his glass, then made myself one. We touched glasses as boxers will touch gloves and nodded to each other. We drank.
After my interview with Creedy and then with Katchen, the ice-cold whisky certainly hit a spot. We lit cigarettes, sank further down in the basket chairs and grinned at each other.
“Pretty nice, huh?” Fulton said. “If there’s one thing I like better than anything else it’s to sit where I can listen to the sea and drink good whisky. I don’t reckon a man could wish for anything nicer. Okay, there are times when a woman can take the place of pretty well anything, but when a guy wants to relax he doesn’t want a woman. I’ll tell you why: women talk: whisky doesn’t. This is a bright idea of yours, buster.”
I said I was full of bright ideas.
“I’ve another bright idea,” I went on. “After we’ve had a few drinks, it might be an idea to try some of that chicken cooking
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