“I work here,” she told him, and turned to pick up the sidecar the waiter set on the bar.
Shayne lifted his glass and touched hers. He said, “So that’s it. Well, here’s to bigger and better percentages.” He shoved a five-dollar bill toward the bartender. “Let me know when that’s used up.”
“You seem to know all the answers,” she said, and there was a fleeting return of the sullenness around her mouth that he had noticed in the elevator.
“I’ve been around,” he told her, then asked abruptly, “What’s your name?”
“Lana Moore.” She turned to him as she spoke and added, “You’ll only give me a phony if I ask yours, so I’ll call you Red.”
“Make it Mike.” He shoved the two empty glasses aside and held up two fingers when he caught the bartender’s eye.
She laughed and said, “Five dollars’ worth of these ought to fix things up between us, Red. You see, I kind of go for red hair. But you’ll be thinking it’s a line,” she ended seriously, as the bartender set two sidecars before them.
“It’s a good one if it is.” He drained his glass, pushed it aside and folded his arms on the bar. “What’s your racket? Tell me about it.”
She sipped reflectively, said, “I get a percentage here and at other places. If I can entice you back to the gambling room I get a rakeoff on your losses.” She laughed deep in her throat.
Except for her first low-lidded glance, the girl gave no indication that she recognized him as the man who had ridden down in the elevator with her at the Dragoon Hotel.
After they had drunk four sidecars Shayne suggested, “Let’s find something to eat.”
“There’s a nice dining-room here,” she told him, “with a fair floor show. But it isn’t the hottest one in the Quarter.”
Lana Moore eased herself from the stool, tucked her arm in his and they went out and through the corridor into the dining-room. The head waiter met them with a deferential bow and seated them at a table for two near the velvet rope separating a small stage from the diners. The large room was less than half filled, but the first floor show was already in progress. The acts were risque without being indecent, and Shayne was beginning to understand why Dan Trueman never had any trouble with the law.
When a waiter brought the menus Shayne laid his aside and said, “You know the joint, Lana. Order for both of us.”
“I’d love to,” she answered with a pleased smile. “We’ll start with a Sazerac cocktail,” she went on, looking up at the waiter, “shrimp salad with Arnaud’s dressing and oysters Rockefeller.”
Shayne made a wry face. “That’s not much food for a hungry man.”
She laughed delightedly. “You evidently haven’t eaten oysters Rockefeller. We’ll have a Petit Brule and coffee later.”
“I’ll trust your judgment,” he said. “Now tell me what the hell are you doing in this racket.”
The waiter was coming with the cocktails. When he went away she took a long drink from her glass, set it down and looked across the table at Shayne. Her tawny eyes were cold and her mouth sullen again. “It’s a good racket,” she said huskily. “I make enough money and I get back at men.”
Shayne tasted the Sazerac and puckered his mouth in distaste. “Somebody has ruined good bourbon and vermouth and absinthe by mixing them,” he complained. “So you’re getting back at men?” He raised one brow quizzically.
Lana’s laugh was mirthless. She was getting drunk and her voice was thick and halting when she said, “Once upon a time I sowed one teeny little oat-on a plain in Montana. It was a tame little oat, Red-not the least bit wild, but it came a cropper. I went through hell-you know, little mid-west town, ashamed to go home to my parents-”
Shayne grunted. “And I’d pick you for a smart one.”
“I was smart,” she blazed. “I’m still smart. I’d had two years at the University before-it happened. I was just nineteen,” she ended, and finished her cocktail.
The waiter brought their dinner, and they sat in moody silence while he arranged it on the table. He asked, “Will there be something else, madam?”
“Petit Brule with our coffee,” Lana ordered, and he went away.
The moody silence continued as they ate. Lana sobered a little, and when the last oyster was gone from her plate she said, “Brain food, Red. I should have eaten before I talked. Maybe I would have lied instead of telling the truth.”
“I usually sift out the truth in the long run,” he told her.
She shrugged her bare shoulders. Her eyes were troubled and she leaned toward him with both elbows on the table, her chin resting on her clasped fingers. “I wouldn’t have lied to you, Red,” she said softly. “You know how it is sometimes. I find a man I can really go for.”
“Meaning me?” Shayne grinned. “Your eyes are green.”
“Meaning you,” she drawled. “They’re yellow-cat eyes, Red. It’s the green-dress influence.” She smiled.
“It’s a nice influence. Let’s get started.” Shayne pushed his chair back.
“Not yet.” She reached across the narrow table and laid her hand on his. “We have to perform the rites over a Petit Brule first.”
A third tray arrived and the waiter set dishes containing cups made from half an orange peeling before them, a small flask of brandy, a decorative container filled with cinnamon and two pots of coffee.
Shayne said, “Just leave the check, and that’ll be all.”
Lana poured brandy into the orange cups, dropped two lumps of sugar in each and sprinkled cinnamon over the brandy. She struck a match to each and a blue flame glowed. “Isn’t it beautiful,” she breathed, her full lips smiling.
“Looks pretty,” Shayne agreed, “but I don’t like my liquor messed up that way.”
She laughed and blew the flames out, waited a moment, then began drinking with relish. Shayne took one sip from his orange cup and set it aside. “Here-you can have mine,” he said, and poured a cup of coffee.
“I’ll have to take you in hand, Red,” Lana said, “and teach you the wonders of the French Quarter.”
“Let’s start with the game room,” he suggested.
Lana finished both the drinks, drank half a cup of coffee, and got up. Shayne paid the bill and she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, pressed it hard, and led him to the rear of the dining-room and on a circuitous route not easily discovered by the uninitiated, to the gaming room.
A tall man with wide shoulders bulging his dinner coat smiled and said, “Good evening, Miss Moore.”
The room evidenced the same discreet good taste which characterized the rest of the Laurel Club. There was a crap table and a roulette wheel, three green baize card tables and a 4-5-6 game was in progress at the table nearest the door. All the games were getting a fair play from a quiet and well-mannered group of men and a few women.
Lana stopped Shayne by squeezing his arm and holding him back just inside the door. “You don’t have to play heavy,” she said in a low, husky voice. “Just enough to keep me in right.”
Shayne grinned at her upturned face.
“If I’ve got money to throw away, why not throw it at you instead of the wolves? Is that it, Lana?”
She shrugged and smiled. “Figure it out any way you want to.”
He said, “By God, Lana, you’re a wonder,” and meant it. “Let’s try our luck at four-five-six.”
He drew her to the table and changed a fifty-dollar bill into chips, divided them into two piles and pushed one toward her. Lana pressed close to him and moved the chips back into one pile. “I never gamble that way, darling,” she whispered.
A fat man had the bank. A couple of hundred dollars in chips were stacked in front of him and he was perspiring freely. Shayne took ten of it and watched while the rest of the chips were covered. The fat man threw a pair of fives and a trey, then passed the three dice to the first player on his left who had faded part of the money.
Shayne was next in line. His first throw was a natural: a 4-5-6 which brought the dice and the bank to him after the play was ended. He added another hundred to the sixty and said to Lana, “I have been hot in this game a couple of times.”
When the dice came to him he rattled them in the cup while the houseman called the size of the bank and
