“Not so bad, Joe. What are you rushin’ for?”

“Aw, I can’t step out witcha tonight, hon.”

“Why not?”

“I’m takin’ the Bearcat around to Toni’s to eat. Him an’ his friends. Ain’t he a wow?”

“Yeah, I’ll say so!” the Babe exclaimed. “Do you know him good?”

“Say, didn’t he live at me hotel? I’m de one put Charlie wise to him.”

Two cops coming from the stairway and moving the crowd away stopped as they saw Babe and grinned.

Babe turned seriously to Joe.

“Joe, I want to meet the Bearcat.”

“You won’t if Charlie sees you first.”

“Never mind about Charlie. I want to meet him, you hear?”

“All right,” said Joe.

Bill Larson, a friend of Joe’s, came up. Babe knew him, too. They greeted one another.

“Are we goin’ over to Toni’s?” Bill Larson asked Joe.

“Yeah,” said Joe. “Soon as the Bearcat gets dressed. Listen, you better duck over there a while ‘n’ grab a couple of tables.”

“Okay,” said Bill.

“I’m goin’ with you,” said Babe.

“Well, come along,” said Bill.

Joe hurried to Bearcat’s dressing room. The old timer who had called Babe a hot-point sister grabbed her by the arm.

“Hello, baby—how about tonight?”

“Listen, airedale,” she said, “if I want you I’ll whistle for you.” She nudged Jenny, indicating a ring on his hand that was worth about fifty dollars in hock. Jenny saw it and walked off with him.

Babe walked out with Bill and headed for Toni’s. She knew then that she was sure to meet the Bearcat.

With her escort, Bill Larson, she walked to the corner of 135th Street and Fifth Avenue, and then turned to the left, walking through a block of chop suey fronts, dance halls and speakeasies, where you bought gin for ten cents and where high-strung society nerves dropped in incognito for their “shots” of morphine and coke, while blood-stained criminals sat drinking and smoking at the tables in resigned security. In this block they were in Coke Village, below the deadline in deep Harlem.

They came to 134th Street and dropped a short run of steep stairs to Toni’s. Toni’s was a basement restaurant of red walls stippled with gold and lighted by blue and red bulbs. It was an Italian place and had become popular as a sporting hangout. The food was good. Fighters from the Marathon Club, managers and other sporting bloods often dropped in.

Bill arranged to reserve two tables for the expected party, and Babe and he sat down at one of them to wait. She ordered a gin rickey, while Bill chose rye.