First off, we was all kind of disappointed. We drives up to a house in the Fifties, just an ordinary-looking place, and all dark.
"This can't be the place," I says to the taxi driver.
"Sure, this is the joint all right," he says.
"Are you sure?" I says.
"Sure, you bet," he says. "I've driven lots of folks here. You just ring that basement bell and they'll let you in," he says.
Well, I figured he probably knew his business, so my wife and Delmerine and I, we all piled out of the taxi, and I went and rang the bell at the basement door—well, they call it the basement; it was really practically the ground floor, but this was one of those houses that they got so many of in New York, or used to have anyway, though now a lot of 'em are being torn down to make way for modern apartment houses—graystone houses they call 'em, and you go up a flight of steps from the street to the front door, so the door to this basement floor, as they call it, was really kind of under
