A Mexican waiter in a short green jacket and white pants with a green stripe down the side came up and I ordered a double Gibson and asked if I could have a club sandwich where I was. He said,
The music stopped, there was desultory clapping. The orchestra was deeply moved, and played another number. A dark-haired headwaiter who looked like a road company Herbert Marshall circulated among the tables offering his intimate smile and stopping here and there to polish an apple. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite a big handsome Irish type character with gray in his hair and just enough of it. He seemed to be alone. He wore a dark dinner jacket with a maroon carnation in the lapel. He looked like a nice guy if you didn’t crowd him. At that distance and in that light I couldn’t tell much more, except that if you did crowd him, you had better be big, fast, tough and in top condition.
The headwaiter leaned forward and said something and they both looked towards Mitchell and the Mayfield girl. The captain seemed concerned, the big guy didn’t seem to care much one way or another. The headwaiter got up and left. The big guy fitted a cigarette into a holder and a waiter popped a lighter at him as if he had been waiting all evening for the opportunity. The big guy thanked him without looking up.
My drink came and I grabbed it and drank. The music stopped and stayed stopped. The couples divided and strolled back to their tables. Larry Mitchell still had hold of Betty. He was still grinning. Then he began to pull her close. He put his hand behind her head. She tried to shake him off. He pulled harder and pushed his flushed face down on hers. She struggled but he was too strong for her. He chewed her face some more. She kicked him. He jerked his head up, annoyed.
“Let go of me, you drunken slob,” she said breathlessly but very distinctly.
His face got a nasty look. He grabbed her arms hard enough to bruise her and slowly using his strength he pulled her tight against his body and held her there. People looked hard, but nobody moved.
“Whassa matta, baby, you no love poppa no more?” he inquired loudly and thickly.
I didn’t see what she did to him with her knee but I could guess and it hurt him. He pushed her away and his face went savage. Then he hauled off and slapped her across the mouth forehand and backhand. The red showed on her skin at once.
She stood quite still. Then in a voice the whole joint could hear she said clearly and slowly: “Next time you do that, Mr. Mitchell—be sure to wear a bullet-proof vest.”
She turned and walked away. He just stood there. His face had gone glistening white—whether from pain or rage I couldn’t tell. The headwaiter walked softly up to him and murmured something with an inquiring lift of the eyebrow.
Mitchell brought his eyes down and looked at the man. Then without a word he walked right through him and the headwaiter had to stagger out of his way. Mitchell followed Betty, and on the way he bumped a man in a chair and didn’t stop to apologize. Betty was sitting down now at a table against the glass wall right next to the big dark guy in the dinner jacket. He looked at her. He looked at Mitchell. He took his cigarette holder out of his mouth and looked at that. His face was quite expressionless.
Mitchell reached the table. “You hurt me, sweetness,” he said thickly but loudly. “I’m a bad man to hurt. Catch on? Very bad. Want to apologize?”
She stood up, jerked a wrap off the back of the chair and faced him.
“Shall I pay the check, Mr. Mitchell—or will you pay it with what you borrowed from me?”
His hand went back for another swing at her face. She didn’t move. The guy at the next table did. He came up on his feet in one smooth movement and grabbed Mitchell’s wrist.
“Take it easy, Larry. You’ve got a skinful.” His voice was cool, almost amused.
Mitchell jerked his wrist loose and spun around. “Stay out of this, Brandon.”
“Delighted, old man. I’m not in it. But you’d better not slug the lady again. They don’t often throw people out of here—but it could happen.”
Mitchell laughed angrily. “Why don’t you go spit in your hat, mister?”
The big man said softly, “Take it easy, Larry, I said. I won’t say it again.”
Mitchell glared at him. “Okay, see you later,” he said in a sulky voice, He started off and stopped. “Much later,” he added, half turning. Then he went out—unsteadily but quickly, looking at nothing.
Brandon just stood there. The girl just stood there. She looked uncertain about what to do next.
She looked at him. He looked at her. He smiled, just polite and easygoing, no come-on. She didn’t smile back.
“Anything I could do?” he asked. “Drop you anywhere?” Then he half turned his head. “Oh, Carl.”
The headwaiter came up to him quickly.
“No check,” Brandon said. “You know, in the circumstances—”
“Please,” the girl said sharply. “I don’t want other people paying my bills.”
He shook his head slowly. “Custom of the house,” he said.
“Nothing to do with me personally. But may I send you a drink?”
She looked at him some more. He had what it took all right.
“Send?” she asked.
He smiled politely. “Well, bring then—if you care to sit down.”
And this time he pulled out the chair at his own table. And she sat down. And at that moment, not a second before, the headwaiter signaled the orchestra and they began to play another number.
Mr. Clark Brandon seemed to be the sort of man who got what he wanted without raising his voice.
