It was encouraging to know that Tony had faith in him. Tony Donelli was about thirty, a tough, lean-faced man who was on his third or fourth reenlistment hitch. A real sailor. He had been all around the world for Uncle Sam’s Navy, and he knew all the angles, every trick there was in the book.

In the last month or so he had taken Marty under his wing, so to speak. He had coached him in what to do when he got to New York. Good old Tony, Marty thought warmly. He really helped me out.

Yesterday, before the ship had docked, Tony had spent an hour giving Marty his final briefing. He had told him exactly what bar to go to for a pickup, had told him how to know which girls were looking to be picked up. Tony had advised him to carry a lot of money—girls like to be impressed that way—but also to be careful with it. Marty had cashed in a couple of checks and had borrowed a little dough too. He had better than two hundred bucks, all of it in small bills. It made a fine thick roll in his wallet. It was sure to impress any girl.

A couple of people went past him and into the bar. Marty moistened his lips, then licked them again. He couldn’t stand out here stalling all night. Tony was sure to know if he was telling the truth or not, when he got back to the ship. He had to go inside, pick up a girl, take her to a room.

He sucked in a deep breath and decided the time had come. He pushed open the door and went in.

* * *

The place was noisy. Some kind of jazz band was pounding away on a raised stage in the back. Marty was bewildered and confused by the sudden rush of noise and smell that came to him at once, the noise of hundreds of people talking and the smell of liquor. But he got control of himself quickly. He remembered Tony’s detailed instructions.

Go to the bar first. Have a drink first thing. Loosen up a little. Then look around.

Marty found an open stool at the bar and slid onto it. The bartender was a thick-set bald-headed man who looked at him inquisitively without saying anything.

“B-beer,” Marty said.

A moment later he found a glass sitting in front of him—half full, with a couple of inches of foam on top. He reached for it.

“Thirty-five cents, sailor.” Marty peeled a bill off his roll and slid it across the bar top. Only as he handed it over did he realize it was a five and not a single, but by then it was too late. The barkeep glared at him and made change with obvious reluctance.