Carl said to the bartender, "I'll try that Ten High with a touch of water," and asked if the band was through for the night. It was only half past twelve. " 'Nother band's coming on." The man placed Carl's drink on the bar. "The Count, Lester, Buck Clayton, whoever wants to sit in." Carl said, "They any good?" The bartender had turned away and a colored guy sitting at the bar, a scar under his left eye, a space between his front teeth, was looking at Carl holding his grip. He said, "Just come to town, huh? You one of those crazy Shriners?" Carl said, "No, I'm a crazy U. S. marshal. I'm looking for somebody I know ain't here. Everybody in this joint's darker than she is." Carl sat down wearing the hat he was breaking in and his raincoat. This tough-looking guy next to him had turned and placed his elbows on the bar in front of his bottle of Falstaff. Carl drank the top part of his highball and got out his Luckies. The guy next to him already had a cigaret going. "I came in to the Union Station," Carl said.
