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He balanced a tray of thick white ceramic mugs on one hand with practiced ease.
The piano was working on ‘Where’d You Get Those Eyes? He pulled a little time at Q once because of me.’ A wild-haired youth wearing a loud check suit and a pair of the new square-toed sport oxfords came down the chute to whoosh out across the floor. ’ ‘Where little girls come from.’ She leaned toward him and consciously wet her lips. I know what I-’ ‘You’re a brat.’ He jerked his head at a far corner of the room. Here comes Fingers Le Grand.’ ‘Why do they call him Fingers?
’ ‘Lived in sin with a three-legged dwarf lady who liked to-’ ‘Sam! He pulled open the door, slid back the inner iron grillwork. I turned up most of the gold in a drainpipe aboard ship, but he got caught changing two missing sovereigns into paper money and did a little trick at Quentin.’ The elevator groaned its way toward the third floor.
’ Like so many postquake buildings, 891 Post had a lobby suggesting a Greek temple rather than an apartment house, with a huge square pane of mirror beside the elevator to reflect the faces and figures of anyone mounting the steps from the foyer. Goodie said thoughtfully, ‘I can never be sure I’m getting a straight answer out of you.’ ‘You wouldn’t know a straight answer if it bit you on the nose.’ ‘Bite me on the nose, Sam.’ Her face was cold against his lips, shiny with the night mist. ’ The door opened directly into the living room, with the oversized closet that hid the wall bed just to the left.
’ Two steaming mugs thudded down to slop java across the planks. ’ When Goodie nodded, Hammett added, ‘Looking at us.’ ‘Punk and plaster? His arms flailed wildly as his feet went out from under him and he lit on the seat of his pants in the sawdust. ‘See what would have happened if you’d come down the chute? ’ ‘Everything but the national anthem on a deck of cards.’ Le Grand was a cadaverous man who moved as if on rubber joints; his dolorous face, with dark-rimmed eyes, was thrust forward on a thin stalk of neck.
At the foot of the stairs, Goodie unconsciously posed for the room’s male eyes as she looked about.
Hammett put down their sixty cents with a dime tip, and stood up. Hammett, busy with his keys as they crossed deserted Post Street, didn’t answer.
On the wall behind his head was a sign reading: 1000 BEANS BREAD, BUTTER AND COFFEE Goodie began, ‘Why-’ ‘I promised your mother I’d look after you.’ ‘You’ve never met my mother! They caught a rattling little dinky up Powell to Sutter, transferred to a Number 1 Owl, and left that to walk downhill on Hyde. She demanded, ‘Sam, what did you do before you were a writer? That waiter was a steward aboard the Sonoma when a hundred twenty-five thousand in gold specie disappeared from her strong room en route from Sydney back in twenty-one.
The writer had removed his snap-brim gray Wilton; his fine, prematurely gray hair contrasted sharply with his trim black mustache and expressive black brows. He weighed only one hundred and forty-five pounds, but there was a stubborn whipcord strength to this man.
Goodie leaned across the table to shout, ‘Is it always like this? A heavyset, sweating waiter appeared, wearing old-fashioned spats and a food-stained black cutaway over his dingy apron.