The little man’s face remained solemn. He glanced at Corey, who was standing just inside the doorway. “She’s a mixture,” he said, pointing technically at the female bouncer as though she was something on exhibit. “She’s one-third Irish, one-third Cherokee, and one-third hippopotamus.”

Inhaling slowly, she made a hissing noise. She said to the little man, “You’ll get it from me some day.”

“Mechanically impossible,” he twisted the meaning around. And then, to Corey, “You ever see a rear end jutting out like that? We could use it for a two-handed game of pinochle—”

She lunged toward the little man, whose name was Carp. He moved with reflex action far exceeding that of any sluggish fish. His one-twenty pounds made rapid transit across the street and around the corner. It was no use trying to pursue him; and she walked back to where Corey stood at the side of the doorway. She was muttering aloud to herself, referring to Carp’s unique character traits, his family background, and certain plans she had for his future.

Then she looked up and saw Corey standing there. She glared at him, as though he was an accomplice in some Carp-inspired conspiracy against her. He gave her a soft smile, merely to let her know he was friendly. Her mouth tightened and she continued glaring at him.

“And you,” she said. “You’re another one.”

“I’m just a bystander, Nellie. An innocent bystander.”

“’Innocent,’ he says.” She folded huge arms across forty-four-inch breasts. The breasts were in proportion. She weighed a good two-forty, compressed into five feet six inches. There was no loose fat; it was all solid beef. It amounted to a living missile, braced and aimed, ready for any man who figured he could tamper with her and get away with it.

Corey wasn’t tampering. He let the soft smile fade, so it wouldn’t be misinterpreted. He gestured casually in the direction Carp had taken. “What’s with Carp? What’d he do this time?”

“What he’s always doin’,” Nellie muttered. “Stealin’ drinks off the bar.”

Corey sighed. “Some people never learn.”

Then he knew he shouldn’t have said that. It left him wide open for what was coming. Nellie looked him up and down. Her eyes narrowed with disdain. Her tightened lips twisted with contempt. “You got a right to talk,” she said. “As if you think it don’t show all over you.”

He shrugged, turned away and started through the entrance of the taproom.

But Nellie wasn’t quite finished with him. Her thick fingers gripped his arm. She turned him, forcing him to face her.

She said, “Lemme tell you somethin’, Bradford—”

“Drop it,” he cut in mildly. “You’ve told me before.”