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Summary
“When we’d left, Babyface had just plucked his pearl cufflinks right off his sleeves and tossed them with a cold snarl into the pot. Doc was just watching, a small amused kind of smile on his thin lips. His eyes were bright, almost affectionate. For his part there seemed to be a kind of heat in this, some upside-down private pleasure. Courtship, I’d’ve said if I didn’t know any better. Billy Yank and Hickey had withdrawn to a corner over by the piano where no one could hear their talk over the gay galloping the blond was making on the keys now, playing melodies you’d hear in rich folks’ parlors but playing them quick and wild and loud, appropriate for the place and the time and the slow swell of the night toward its own spilling-over. You could feel whatever was coming like sometimes you feel snow coming and I guess Blondie there could too—he seemed to be putting a score to it like it was a ballet.”