bills which he stuffed into his waistcoat pocket without the formality of examination.
Winter Palace? she inquired.
A nasty shadow flitted across Anatole's face.
Naw, he retorted. Too many ofays an' jig-chasers.
Bowie Wilcox's is dicty.
Too many monks.
Atlantic City Joe's?
Too many pink-chasers an' bulldikers.
Where den?
Duh Black Venus.
A few moments later they were swallowed by an entrance on Lenox Avenue, flanked by two revolving green lights. Arm in arm, they descended the stairs to the basement. As they walked down the long hallway which led to the dance-floor, the sensual blare of jazz, slow, wailing jazz, stroked their ears. At the door three waiters in evening clothes greeted the Creeper with enthusiasm.
Why, dat's sartainly Mr. 'Toly.
Good evenin'.
Gwine sit at mah table?
Mine?
Mine, Mr. 'Toly?
Expanding his chest, Anatole gazed down the length of the hall. Couples were dancing in such close proximity that their bodies melted together as they swayed and rocked to the tormented howling of the brass, the barbaric beating of the drum. Across
