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a dime tip—got out, made a note of the expense in my little notebook, and went around to the Clark Street entrance.
    The Morrison lobby was plush, lots of gray marble and dark wood and stuffed furniture and bronze lamps and a ceiling that went up to heaven, which by Chicago standards is a couple of stories. At the fancy marble-and-bronze check-in there was no sign of Polly and her boyfriend. I had a good idea where they were.
    A marble staircase led down to the Terrace Garden, a big shiny art-deco dine-and-dance spot the before-and-after theater crowd had made popular. We were in the “during” mode at the moment, where theater was concerned; but the place was still doing nice business. Great to see so many people had money to spread around in times like these—too bad I wasn’t one of them.
    Polly and friend were seated at one of the round tables in the circular, terraced dining area that surrounded the sunken dance floor, where even now Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians played their bouncy, mellow brand of hokum while couples in evening attire—white coats for the men, low-cut formals for the ladies—mingled with real people, a certain number of world’s fair tourists among them, who met the dress code (ties for men, no slacks for women) but would never make the society page. Part of the reason business here was so brisk was the pleasant, even icy feel of the air conditioning. A man could get used to not drowning in his own sweat, given half a chance.
    The food here was first-rate, but not cheap; I talked it over with my stomach and decided to take a table, despite being uncomfortable about calling attention to myself by dining alone—this was a couples crowd, almost exclusively, and I should probably just go stand at the bar. But what the hell. I ordered the boiled brisket of beef with horseradish sauce, made a mental notation of the expense (not wanting to take out my little notebook), and sipped some rum while I waited for my meal, watching Polly and her friend holding hands across their table, on the other side of the room from me, seated on the terrace level just above the dance floor, just as I was.
    Polly was animated and constantly smiling; it was a nice smile, but it tried a little too hard. He seemed taken with her, but was more reserved: she seemed to be doing most of the talking. They had cocktails—gin fizzes, it looked like—and took in a dance before their main course arrived. They danced right by me, at one point, and that’s when I recognized Polly.
    She, however, didn’t recognize me; or didn’t seem to, when I just barely glanced at them, between bites of brisket, over the little white fence that separated us, as they floated by.
    Still, there was no mistaking her.
    “Nate, you bum,” a familiar tenor voice said. “You’re supposed to be working!”
    I touched a napkin to my mouth and smiled up at my friend Barney Ross, who was wearing a tux he looked uncomfortable in and had a good-looking redheaded girl on his arm, which made a more comfortable fit.
    “I am working,” I said softly. “Why don’t you and your lovely friend fill these two empty chairs before you blow my cover?”
    Barney’s bulldog-cute face made an embarrassed smirk and the puppy-dog brown eyes rolled, and he pulled a chair out for his lady and sat down between us and shrugged and said, “So tonight I’m a shlemiel. I’ll pick up the check.”
    “Thanks, but no thanks. I got a client who’ll pick it up.”
    His grin turned lopsided. “Gee, that’s white of you, Nate. I think I’ll have lobster.”
    “I’m not that white, chum. I don’t pick up checks for rich guys, even when I’m getting expenses.”
    The redhead smiled at hearing Barney called “rich,” but it embarrassed him.
    “Rich, smich,” he said. “A few years, I’ll be out of work and borrowing from you.”
    “Keep playing the ponies and you may be right.”
    Barney’s only vice was gambling; that, and being a soft touch for his old