“Yeah. Surprised you remember me.”

“Don’t be silly,” she beamed. “You used to catch pickpockets at the fair.”

“You used to attract crowds,” I shrugged. “That attracts pickpockets.”

She walked me into the suite, a modern-looking job appointed in black and white, the furnishing running to armless sofas and easy chairs, on which were poised pretty girls in their early twenties, wearing low-cut gowns, drinking stingers and the like, waiting for male guests. Paul Whiteman music was coming from a phonograph, louder than a traffic jam.

“Afraid I never gave your girl friend Sally Rand much of any competition,” she said, talking over the music.

She was still holding onto my hand. Her hand was hot, a friendly griddle.

“Sally isn’t my girl friend,” I said. “Never was. We’re just pals.”

“That’s not what I hear,” she said, wrapping her accent around the words, making them seem very dirty indeed.

“Last I saw you, Ginny, you were a waitress at Joe’s Place.”

Joe’s Place was no relation to Joe Epstein: it was a one-arm joint at Randolph and Clark where the waitresses were pretty and wore skimpy skirts and V-neck blouses. A lot of men ate there.

“That’s where Eppy met me,” she said, finally letting go of my hand, her smile a self-satisfied one.

“I heard,” I said, with an appreciative nod for her accomplishment. “You been seeing a lot of him, huh?”

“He’s a wonderful guy, Eppy. A real genius.”

“Where did he find these girls? They look a little young and fresh to be pros.”

Barney and his pals were mixing with the quiff. Drinks and dancing and laughter. Loud men and giggly girls.

“Skilled amateurs,” she explained, walking me to a nearby bar, behind which a colored bartender in a red vest mixed drinks dispassionately. “Party girls.”

“Secretaries and business-college gals and the like, you mean.”