“Tell me where she is.”
“Sit down,” I said. “I don’t know where she is.”
“The hell you don’t!”
“You can shut your face.”
“Tell me where Brett is.”
“I’ll not tell you a damn thing.”
“You know where she is.”
“If I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Oh, go to hell, Cohn,” Mike called from the table. “Brett’s gone off with the bullfighter chap. They’re on their honeymoon.”
“You shut up.”
“Oh, go to hell!” Mike said languidly.
“Is that where she is?” Cohn turned to me.
“Go to hell!”
“She was with you. Is that where she is?”
“Go to hell!”
“I’ll make you tell me”—he stepped forward—“you damned pimp.”
I swung at him and he ducked. I saw his face duck sideways in the light. He hit me and I sat down on the pavement. As I started to get on my feet he hit me twice. I went down backward under a table. I tried to get up and felt I did not have any legs. I felt I must get on my feet and try