These men talked to one another, as if they weren’t much interested in what they were saying. They looked casually around the joint, with eyes that were blankest when they came to O’Leary. And always those casual—bored—glances did rest on O’Leary for a second or two.
I returned my attention to O’Leary and Nancy Regan. He was sitting a little more erect in his chair than he had been, but it was an easy, supple erectness, and though his shoulders had hunched a bit, there was no stiffness in them. She said something to him. He laughed, turning his face toward the center of the room, so that he seemed to be laughing not only at what she had said, but also at these men who sat around him, waiting. It was a hearty laugh, young and careless.
The girl looked surprised for a moment, as if something in the laugh puzzled her, then she went on with whatever she was telling him. She didn’t know she was sitting on dynamite, I decided. O’Leary knew. Every inch of him, every gesture, said, “I’m big, strong, young, tough and redheaded. When you boys want to do your stuff I’ll be here.”
Time slid by. Few couples danced. Jean Larrouy went around with dark worry in his round face. His joint was full of customers, but he would rather have had it empty.
By eleven o’clock I stood up and beckoned to Jack Counihan. He came over, we shook hands, exchanged “How’s everythings” and “Getting muches,” and he sat at my table.
“What is happening?” he asked under cover of the orchestra’s din. “I can’t see anything, but there is something in the air. Or am I being hysterical?”
“You will be presently. The wolves are gathering, and Red O’Leary’s the lamb. You could pick a tenderer one if you had a free hand, maybe. But these bimbos once helped pluck a bank, and when payday came there