The entrance door of the foyer was opened by the uniformed doorman and Steve Grayce came in.
Dockery said, «Ho, hum,» tapped his teeth and leaned his weight forward. He walked across the lobby slowly to meet the guest. Steve stood just inside the doors and ranged his eyes over the high foyer walled with milky glass, lighted softly from behind. Molded in the glass were etchings of sailing ships, beasts of the jungle, Siamese pagodas, temples of Yucatan. The doors were square frames of chromium, like photo frames. The Club Shalotte had all the class there was, and the mutter of voices from the bar lounge on the left was not noisy. The faint Spanish music behind the voices was delicate as a carved fan.
Dockery came up and leaned his sleek head forward an inch. «May I help you?»
«King Leopardi around?»
Dockery leaned back again. He looked less interested. «The bandleader? He opens tomorrow night.»
«I thought he might be around — rehearsing or something.»
«Friend of his?»
«I know him. I’m not job-hunting, and I’m not a song plugger if that’s what you mean.»
Dockery teetered on his heels. He was tone-deaf and Leopardi meant no more to him than a bag of peanuts. He half smiled. «He was in the bar lounge a while ago.» He pointed with his square rock-like chin. Steve Grayce went into the bar lounge.
It was about a third full, warm and comfortable and not too dark nor too light. The little Spanish orchestra was in an archway, playing with muted strings small seductive melodies that were more like memories than sounds. There was no dance floor. There was a long bar with comfortable seats, and there were small round composition-top tables, not too close together. A wall seat ran around three sides of the room. Waiters flitted among the tables like moths.
Steve Grayce saw Leopardi in the far corner, with a girl. There was an empty table on each side of him. The girl was a knockout.
She looked tall and her hair was the color of a brush fire seen through a dust cloud. On it, at the ultimate rakish angle, she wore a black velvet double-pointed beret with two artificial butterflies made of polka-dotted feathers and fastened on with tall silver pins. Her dress was burgundy-red wool and the blue fox draped over one shoulder was at least two feet wide. Her eyes were large, smoke-blue, and looked bored. She slowly turned a small glass on the table top with a gloved left hand.
Leopardi faced her, leaning forward, talking. His shoulders looked very big in a shaggy, cream-colored sports coat. Above the neck of it his hair made a point on his brown neck. He laughed across the table as Steve came up and his laugh had a confident, sneering sound.
Steve stopped, then moved behind the next table. The movement caught Leopardi’s eye. His head turned, he looked annoyed, and then his eyes got very wide and brilliant and his whole body turned slowly, like a mechanical toy.
Leopardi put both his rather small well-shaped hands down on the table, on either side of a highball glass. He smiled. Then he pushed his chair back and stood up. He put one finger up and touched his hairline mustache, with theatrical delicacy. Then he said drawlingly, but distinctly: «You son of a bitch!»
A man at a nearby table turned his head and scowled. A waiter who had started to come over stopped in his tracks, then faded back among the tables. The girl looked at Steve Grayce and then leaned back against the cushions of the wall seat and moistened the end of one bare finger on her right hand and smoothed a chestnut eyebrow.
Steve stood quite still. There was a sudden high flush on his cheekbones. He said softly: «You left something at the hotel last night. I think you ought to do something about it. Here.»
He reached a folded paper out of his pocket and held it out. Leopardi took it, still smiling, opened it and read it. It was a sheet of yellow paper with torn pieces of white paper pasted on it. Leopardi crumpled the sheet and let it drop at his feet.
He took a smooth step towards Steve and repeated more loudly: «You son of a bitch!»
The man who had first looked around stood up sharply and turned. He said clearly: «I don’t like that sort of language in front of my wife.»
Without even looking at the man Leopardi said: «To hell with you and your wife.»
The man’s face got a dusky red. The woman with him stood up and grabbed a bag and a coat and walked away. After a moment’s indecision the man followed her. Everybody in the place was staring now. The waiter who had faded back among the tables went through the doorway into the entrance foyer, walking very quickly.
Leopardi took another, longer step and slammed Steve Grayce on the jaw. Steve rolled with the punch and stepped back and put his hand down on another table and upset a glass. He turned to apologize to the couple at the table. Leopardi jumped forward very fast and hit him behind the ear.
Dockery came through the doorway, split two waiters like a banana skin and started down the room showing all his teeth.
Steve gagged a little and ducked away. He turned and said thickly: «Wait a minute, you fool — that isn’t all of it — there’s —»
Leopardi closed in fast and smashed him full on the mouth. Blood oozed from Steve’s lip and crawled down the line at the corner of his mouth and glistened on his chin. The girl with the red hair reached for her bag, white-faced with anger, and started to get up from behind her table.
Leopardi turned abruptly on his heel and walked away. Dockery put out a hand to stop him. Leopardi brushed it aside and went on, went out of the lounge.
The tall red-haired girl put her bag down on the table again and dropped her handkerchief on the floor. She looked at Steve quietly, spoke quietly. «Wipe the blood off your chin before it drips on your shirt.» She had a soft, husky voice with a trill in it.
Dockery came up harsh-faced, took Steve by the arm and put weight on the arm. «All right, you! Let’s go!»
Steve stood quite still, his feet planted, staring at the girl. He dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. He half smiled. Dockery couldn’t move him an inch. Dockery dropped his hand, signaled two waiters and they jumped behind Steve, but didn’t touch him.
Steve felt his lip carefully and looked at the blood on his handkerchief. He turned to the people at the table behind him and said: «I’m terribly sorry. I lost my balance.»
The girl whose drink he had spilled was mopping her dress with a small fringed napkin. She smiled up at him and said: «It wasn’t your fault.»
The two waiters suddenly grabbed Steve’s arms from behind. Dockery shook his head and they let go again. Dockery said tightly: «You hit him?»
«No.»
«You say anything to make him hit you?»
«No.»
The girl at the corner table bent down to get her fallen handkerchief. It took her quite a time. She finally got it and slid into the corner behind the table again. She spoke coldly.
«Quite right, Bill. It was just some more of the King’s sweet way with his public.»
Dockery said «Huh?» and swiveled his head on his thick hard neck. Then he grinned and looked back at Steve.
Steve said grimly: «He gave me three good punches, one from behind, without a return. You look pretty hard. See can you do it.»
Dockery measured him with his eyes. He said evenly: «You win. I couldn’t … Beat it!» he added sharply to the waiters. They went away. Dockery sniffed his carnation, and said quietly: «We don’t go for brawls in here.» He smiled at the girl again and went away, saying a word here and there at the tables. He went out through the foyer doors.
Steve tapped his lip, put his handkerchief in his pocket and stood searching the floor with his eyes.
The red-haired girl said calmly: «I think I have what you want — in my handkerchief. Won’t you sit down?»