Free BUtterfield 8 by John O'Hara Page B

well, then by all means let’s go there. That is, if it’s safe.”
    “Of course it’s safe. Either it’s safe or it isn’t. They tell me the local boys approve of this place, that is, they sanction it, allow it to exist and do business, because they figure there has to be one place as a sort of hangout for members of the Chicago mobs. There’s only one real danger.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Well, if the Chicago mobs start shooting among themselves. So far that hasn’t happened, and I don’t imagine it will. You’ll see why.”
    They walked down Broadway a few blocks and then turned and walked east. When they came to a highly polished brass sign which advertised a wigmaker, Jimmy steered Isabel into the narrow doorway, back a few steps and rang for the elevator. It grinded its way down, and a sick-eyed little Negro with a uniform cap opened the door. They got in and Jimmy said: “Sixth Avenue Club.”
    “Yessa,” said the Negro. The elevator rose two stories and stopped. They got out and were standing then right in front of a steel door, painted red, and with a tiny door cut out in the middle. Jimmy rang the bell and a face appeared in the tiny door.
    “Yes, sir,” said the face. “What was the name again?”
    “You’re new or you’d know me,” said Jimmy.
    “Yes, sir, and what was the name again?”
    “Malloy, for Christ’s sake.”
    “And what was the address, Mr. Malloy?”
    “Oh, nuts. Tell Luke Mr. Malloy is here.”
    There was a sound of chains and locks, and the door was opened. The waiter stood behind the door. “Have to be careful who we let in, sir. You know how it is.”
    It was a room with a high ceiling, a fairly long bar on one side, and in the corner on the other side was a food bar, filled with really good free lunch and with obviously expensive kitchen equipment behind the bar. Jimmy steered Isabel to the bar.
    “Hello, Luke,” he said.
    “Howdy do, sir,” said Luke, a huge man with a misleading pleasant face, not unlike Babe Ruth’s.
    “Have a whiskey sour, darling. Luke mixes the best whiskey sours you’ve ever had.”
    “I think I want a Planter’s punch—all right, a whiskey sour.”
    “Yours, sir?”
    “Scotch and soda, please.”
    Isabel looked around. The usual old rascal looking into a schooner of beer and the usual phony club license hung above the bar mirror. Many bottles, including a bottle of Rock and Rye, another specialty of Luke’s, stood on the back bar. Except for the number and variety of the bottles, and the cleanliness of the bar, it was just like any number (up to 20,000) of speakeasies near to and far from Times Square. Then Isabel saw one little article that disturbed her: an “illuminated” calendar, with a pocket for letters or bills or something, with a picture of a voluptuous dame with nothing on above the waist. The calendar still had not only all the months intact, but also a top sheet with “1931” on it. And across the front of the pocket was the invitation. “When in Chicago Visit D’Agostino’s Italian Cooking Steaks Chops At Your Service Private Dining Rooms,” and the address and the telephone numbers, three of them.
    By the time she had studied the calendar and understood the significance of it—what with Jimmy’s advance description of the speakeasy—their drinks were served, and she began to lose the feeling that the people in the speakeasy were staring at her back. She looked around, and no one was staring at her. The place was less than half full. At one table there was a party of seven, four men and three women. One of the women was outstandingly pretty, was not a whore, was not the kind of blonde that is cast for gangster’s moll in the movies, and was not anything but a very good-looking girl, with a very nice shy smile. Isabel could imagine knowing her, and then she suddenly realized why. “Jimmy,” she said, “that girl looks like Caroline English.”
    He turned. “Yes, she does.”
    “But the other people,