The Finish Line

By John Christopher Roberts

Do you love horses? Have you ever walked down the shed rows on the back side of a race track, smelled the damp saw dust, and felt the electricity of thoroughbred racing? Have you ever spent an evening drinking with a bunch of characters who frequent race tracks and seedy out of the way bars? A menagerie of quirky, hard living, hard drinking free spirits from the early 40's whose lives revolve around horse racing have a lot to teach us about hard luck, friendship, family, and personal courage.

Eight years after the start of the Great Depression with another world war looming in Europe a small close-knit family of social misfits live above a down on it's luck bar in South Beach, Miami called The Finish Line. They eke out an existence living by their wits and doing entirely too much drinking and having entirely too much fun just being themselves and living the free life. The extended family who gather each night at the Finish Line like hanging around the paddock area at Hialeah, playing the ponies, making a living at the window, and living life on their own terms.

Willemina Hobbs, the matronly alcoholic owner of the Finish Line and her son, John, a disabled WWI vet, along with Richard, the Jamaican cook and dishwasher keep the Finish Line open and the booze flowing. Willie, as she is known to everyone, likes to start her day with an ice cold beer while John reads the funny papers to her.

Panama Boudreaux is a retired jockey and former trainer who makes his living at the betting window. He's been close friends with the Hobbs family for many years and rents a small room above The Finish Line. He follows the racing season from coast to coast, beginning each year at Hialeah Park, described when it was built as the most elegant race track in the world.

Tad is Willie's 16 year-old grandson. He comes to live at The Finish Line after his father is killed. Having lost his mother in child birth, Tad is shy, unsure of himself, and not at all certain what life at The Finish Line will hold in store. Panama takes the orphaned boy under his wing and offers to show him the hidden world of the back side of a race track. He gives him a job hauling water and mucking stalls and begins to teach him everything he knows about horses and the world of thoroughbred racing.

Into this extended family of working class, social outcasts walks a dark-haired, bi-racial young woman who is light skinned enough to pass for white. Her African and Caucasian roots have gifted her with lithe physical grace and strength and striking beauty. Lucky Stevens ran away from home at sixteen to escape domestic sexual abuse. She has learned to survive by her wits and good looks. Hardened by life on the streets she is now twenty two years old. She is talented, ambitious, opportunistic, and highly intelligent in a street-wise way.

Lucky enters the cool dark of the Finish Line to escape the Miami heat and after a few drinks becomes Panama’s live-in lover. Finding herself now the adopted member of a family of off-beat characters she begins to grow in new ways as Panama introduces her to life at the track.

She soon meets Nino Morelli, who runs off-track gambling parlors in Miami for the Mob. Hoping to get into her pants, Nino gives Lucky a job dancing in his night club. He offers to help her break into show business in NYC if she does him a little favor by fixing an important race leading up to the Kentucky Derby. Nino wants her to dope Panama’s horse and threatens to kill him if she refuses.

Detective Sergeant Patrick Concannon, a former NYC cop now on the Miami police force, suspects Nino in the murder of a trainer and believes he’s fixing races at Hialeah. There is a push on by Florida's new Racing Commissioner to fight illegal off-track betting. After his eye witness to the murder turns up dead Concannon vows to get Morelli. It’s a race to the finish line. Who will get there first, who will end up as an also ran, and who will end

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Christopher Roberts
• Release date: Feb 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310899317

John Christopher Roberts

My bio is not all that important in my estimation. My hope in writing the book is that the characters whose lives are lived within it's pages are capable of speaking for themselves. I hope, dear reader, that you will enjoy, laugh at, and learn something from the people in the book that you can use to make your own life better in the ways you deem worthy.Any book worth it's feed takes us to places and times that are unfamiliar and illuminates our own world while teaching us something about ourselves. You want to have some fun? Do you love horses? Have you ever been down on your luck with nowhere to turn and no one to turn to? Have you ever been knocked down and had to get yourself up only to find everything you thought of a moment before as your life had suddenly vanished? If you answered yes to any of these questions you will find some friends to share a drink and a story with, some compadre's - your people - at the Finish Line.The Finish Line is a glimpse into a hidden corner of the American story just before that story was about to change dramatically and permanently. The story began as a rough incomplete first draft found among my father's effects after his death. There was no ending. In spite of the huge missing pieces something in the story and the characters he sketched out touched me deeply. Going to the track with my father was often a life changing experience. "Things" happened on a regular basis. The book is auto-biographical in it's essence. I leave it to your imagination, dear reader, to figure who I am in the story. Not that it really matters.I think of the story as a last testament to my father's life. I viewed the effort of writing it as if I were restoring an old car of his that had been rotting in the garage for decades. I would perfect and improve it until it was as new and whole as if it had just rolled off the assembly line. A 1940 Lincoln Continental Cabriolet convertible.The book took over 15 years to become as true and honest as I know how to make anything. It was revised, and revised, and revised, and revised again. Each time the lines became cleaner, the contours better defined. The right engine parts were found, and the motor tuned until it purred. It's a pretty sweet ride. I hope I have done Panama, Willie, Lucky, Tad, and all the other marvelous, quirky, broken, brilliant, unkempt, beautiful characters justice who lived out their fates at Hialeah Park and The Finish Line in the early '40's.These are the biographies that are important to me to write about, not my own. My deepest wish is that the reader will enjoy meeting the characters within the book as much as I have.

Book preview

The Finish Line

by

John Christopher Roberts

Copyright © 2013

John Christopher Roberts

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

First and foremost, this book is dedicated to my father, whose life and vision form the basis for this story. Your race is run, Pop. Rest easy.

And, second, to people everywhere who know they have what it takes, and have to fight every day to survive.

Never give up.

Never give in to despair, deceit, or the dishonesty of those without talent, without heart.

Believe and never loose faith.

It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.

Chapter 1

High atop the grandstands at Hialeah Park the flags stood out boldly against an azure sky. They blew gaily in the light morning breeze as the warm Florida sun shone brightly down on Miami the second Saturday morning of April, 1941. A noisy flock of pink flamingos occupying the lagoon inside the oval race track filled the morning breeze with their cries and concerns.

The track was freshly groomed and untrammeled, raked and ready in anticipation of the day’s races. The earth was moist with early morning dew. Later in the day that would change when the heat of the afternoon began to bear down on every human, plant and animal.

Patterned after the Oriental in Havana, Hialeah Park had been described in the press as the most beautiful race course in the world. Its sweeping staircases, balconies of light gray limestone, and luxurious flora combined to give the buildings the look of a graceful French chateau. The flocks of pink flamingos and black swans that made their permanent home in the large lagoon in the center of the racing oval added to the feeling of luxury and opulence that permeated the grounds of Hialeah.

The scene was all very familiar to a short strongly built man in a dilapidated Panama hat who stood at the paddock rail. As the crowd of race fans milled noisily about he looked out over the broad expanse of the racetrack oval at the pink flamingos and their young. He folded a racing form neatly in half, tucked it under his arm and gazed up at the wisps of clouds blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico.

He wore a pair of faded tan gabardine trousers, a little baggy at the knees, and a beige cotton shirt. The collar and cuffs of his shirt were trimmed in brown saddle stitches. Dust covered his worn leather boots. The worn out hat completed his outfit.

Panama took off his hat to wipe the perspiration from the sweatband. The thin strands of his wavy once sandy-red, now completely white, hair blew gently in the light breeze. He looked a good three weeks overdue for a trip to the barber. His long thin face, creased and browned by years of wind and sun, showed the same wear and tear as his clothing, with the notable exception of his wide-set, pale brown eyes, which were lively, and clear.

He took a long look at the beat up hat in his left hand. On the first Saturday in May, Panama, as the regulars called him, threw away his old hat and replaced it with the best, most expensive, shiniest new straw hat he could find. It was his trademark, known at racetracks from coast to coast. But the first Saturday in May was several weeks off and he still wore the tattered victim of last year’s sun and showers.

Another year done, and a new one gettin’ ready to run, Panama thought, placing the hat back in its familiar place.

He took the racing form out from under his arm and unfolding it, leaned his elbows on the paddock rail and began to contemplate the information printed in its dog-eared pages.

He had begun his racing career many years earlier as a jockey. He had the perfect physique for the job. As a young man he was light of frame with strong but sensitive hands, and a good sense of balance. His riding days were long over. Like most men in their fifties Panama had filled out over the years, but his forearms, chest, and shoulders were just as strong as they had been in his twenties.

He spent season after season moving from track to track following the racing season cross-country, and back again, beginning each year at Hialeah Park. He made his living at the window now, handicapping horses, a skill at which he excelled, and for which, like his trademark hat, he was known to all the regulars who frequented Hialeah.

Cocking the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the sun, Panama leaned on the paddock rail as he watched the trainer saddle the Five horse. Looking alert, the colt stood quietly in the morning air with his ears forward while the saddle was cinched up. He sneezed a few times, relaxing, and nodded his head twice at Panama, as if to assure him he intended to win the race. Five horse in the fifth. Panama believed in luck, but he didn’t depend on it. He looked from the horse to the sheet one last time to check the race conditions and his selection. There was a lot of valuable information in the Past Performances of the Racing Form.

But they were just that -- past performances, Panama reflected as he heard his name called above the heads of the milling crowd.

Hey, Panama! Willimina Hobbs shouted as she hurried across the sunlit paddock. One hand held a large broad-brimmed straw hat on her head as she made a beeline through the crowd, heading straight for Panama. Known to everyone as Willie, she owned a saloon and boarding house on the South Beach called The Finish Line where she rented some rooms by the week, some by the day, and some by the hour. She was a woman whose age would be difficult to guess, having done some pretty heavy drinking in her sixty-odd years. She wore a red plaid shirt two sizes too big with the sleeves rolled up under a pair of bib-overalls which were rolled up above her ankles. On her feet she wore a pair of black high top tennis shoes with no socks.

Looking like a scarecrow running from her own shadow she staggered toward Panama, her matronly breasts swinging freely beneath her shirt and overalls. As she pulled up alongside Panama she lost her balance and steadying herself, grabbed his shoulder with an outstretched hand. Her sunburned face was a mass of friendly wrinkles. The capillaries on her nose and cheeks stood out delicately on her pink cheeks. She hid her bloodshot eyes behind a pair of dark cat’s eye sunglasses. As she leaned in close, towering over Panama, she brought her left index finger up to her slightly pursed lips. Willie looked around to see if anyone was listening. She whispered a question in his left ear, her breath laced with the strong flavor of a good morning shot of bourbon.

Who you think looks good in the fifth? she asked, trying to catch her breath, her hand resting confidentially on Panama’s shoulder.

The Five horse. Panama whispered back breathlessly, playing along. She gave Panama a big wink from behind her sunglasses, and flashed him the okay sign.

Five. Got it, she whispered.

Panama watched with a bemused smile as Willie staggered away into the crowd, headed for the betting windows. Panama’s smile faded quickly as he detected the faint aroma of body odor. Sammy the Snake wearing a soiled white tank top and a worn pair of jeans slipped in between him and a distinguished looking gentleman in an expensive gray suit.

How’s tricks, Panama? Sammy hissed softly in Panama’s right ear. He had a thin weasel-like body, dark features, and a large nose separating two narrow, close-set brown eyes.

Everything’s jake, replied Panama without turning his head as Sammy deftly inserted his hand into the pocket of the gray suit and swiftly withdrew several hundred dollar bills folded into a gold money clip. Panama sensed instantly that Sammy was on the whiz.

See ya in the funny papers, Sammy smiled as he slipped silently back into the crowd, moving quickly in the general direction of the betting windows. Panama watched from the corner of his eye as Sammy slide past a plainclothesman in a blue suit just as he was slapping a set of bracelets on Buddy Balesteros, a local bookie. He had seen the recent headlines about the crackdown on illegal betting by Alex Balfe, Florida’s new Racing Commissioner. Not wishing to attract any attention to himself, he pushed the brim of his hat further down on his forehead and studied the racing form as the cop manhandled the bookie out of the paddock.

The race was a $3,000 claiming race at six furlongs for three year olds and up. Winners of one race that year were given three additional pounds. Panama first threw out all the horses that couldn’t win and then tried to pick the two or three that could hit the board. Number Five stood out as the clear winner. The horse’s name was Bold Charge, a Bold Venture colt, trained by Bobby North and ridden by G. Seabo.

Nothing wrong with that combination, thought Panama as the paddock judge called, Rider’s up!

The jockeys stepped aboard as the people at the rail who had been standing quietly by studying the horses, closed their programs, folded their racing forms, and began heading for the windows to place their bets. The horses left the paddock in single file, answering the trumpeted call for the Post Parade. Jockeys knotted the reins and settled into the irons, crossing the paddock area accompanied by the outriders. The Parade disappeared into the tunnel under the grandstand, headed for the track and the starting gate.

Thus far, Panama had bet three out of the first four races and cashed all the tickets. He’d won the daily double, passed the third race, and put a solid hundred-dollar bet on the favorite in the fourth that had paid off at three to one. He had just over five hundred dollars more than he’d started with, and he was going to add another five hundred to lay on the Five horse. He liked the ring of so many fives in combination.

Panama noticed the bespectacled Dr. Wilson J. Shultz wearing a loose-fitting blue seersucker suit with a red bow tie shuffling along in the crowd. The Doctor fumbled a bit as he took a wrinkled handkerchief from his coat pocket and raised a trembling hand to wipe the large beads of sweat visible on his forehead. A broken down MD on the brink of losing his license, there was talk around the backside that Doc Shultz had been routinely providing drugs to fix races.

Looking up at the board Panama had trouble believing the odds on number five were still twenty-five to one. There was only nine hundred dollars in the win pool. Panama knew he couldn’t go to the window because such a large bet would drive down the odds to maybe even money or four to five. And besides, such a large bet would attract attention. Panama had a reputation for picking winners. None of the bookies at the track would take such a big bet, and he didn’t have time to split it up. He realized the only place to make the bet was with Nino Morelli.

As Panama was leaving the paddock area, looking for a way through the crowd, he spotted Lucky leaning on the paddock rail studying a racing program. Her bright blue eyes were always the first thing Panama thought of when he thought of Lucky, which lately was a lot. As he approached her from behind, he couldn’t keep his eyes from smiling at how her chestnut brown hair languished over her shoulders before falling past the nape of her neck onto her back. Lucky was tall for a woman, lithe as a two year old Philly, and a few days away from her twenty-second birthday. She had brightly painted lips, and a thin straight nose, molded as if by a classical Greek sculptor in beautiful proportion to the other fine features of her face. She wore an old pair of blue jeans and a frayed cotton shirt tucked tightly into the waist of her jeans. Even in those tattered duds she somehow gave off an impression of elegance. She stood as though posing for a portrait with an easy natural grace as Panama drew close to her. As he approached he couldn’t help noticing that her clothes did nothing to hide the slender sensuous curves of her hips.

Who you like in the fifth? Panama said.

Lucky turned around sprightly, hooked her elbows on the rail and looked at Panama, her blue eyes searched back and forth over the weathered lines of his face.

You testing me? she asked with a half smile.

Panama smiled back as he nodded, noticing the few small brown freckles that dotted her checks just below her sky blue eyes.

Number Six? she asked with an unconscious lift of her brow.

Don’t waste your money. Bet the Five horse.

She studied his eyes intently. Panama looked back steadily into hers.

It’s as plain as the nose on your face. If you want to see your two dollars go up in smoke, bet the Six. But if you want to make half a C bet the Five.

You ain’t kidding me are you, Panama?

Panama held up his right hand, Honest Injun.

Okay. Five it is. Lucky said with a nod. She smiled warmly at Panama, hooking her thumbs into the empty belt loops of her jeans. As she leaned back onto the rail her pelvic bones showed from under her shirt.

Panama reached out to Lucky. She smiled and allowed the first two fingers of both his hands to follow the curve of her hips down into the waist of her jeans. He pulled her close. He felt her hair lightly brush his cheek. As he leaned in close he was instantly infused with the sweet scent of her skin wafted up into his face by the sea breeze.

Listen, he whispered in her ear. I’m going to make a big bet and the only place to make it is with Nino Morelli. He slipped fifty dollars into the back pocket of her jeans.

If I don’t get back in time, put this on the nose.

You expecting to get shot or something?

It could happen, he said as he stepped away and disappeared into the crowd.

Ω

Detective Sergeant Patrick Concannon had grown up on New York’s Lower East Side, one of the Irish kids who had shared the streets with the Italians. At thirty-five he married a girl from Miami who worked as a buyer for Macy’s. She loved New York, but hated the winters, and longed to get back to the Florida sunshine. After Concannon got his twenty in with the NYPD he moved his wife, Maisey, to Miami Beach where she now owned and operated a stationary shop. With his pension and his pay from the Miami police force, and the earnings from Maisey’s shop, they were able to enjoy a much better life style than they had endured for so many years in Brooklyn.

He took Maisey to Hialeah Park that morning intending to do nothing more than relax, place a few bets, and enjoy the view of the pink flamingo’s nesting inside the oval track over lunch. He knew Maisey positively adored pink flamingos. She had read aloud to him from the morning’s paper about the 62 chicks that had recently been born at Hialeah. To her pink flamingos represented all that was grand and beautiful about life in South Florida.

Ω

Looking past the club manager, who glared disapprovingly at his dingy hat, Panama glanced down at the track through the glass wall, which ran along the length of the Turf Club. The manager, dressed in a crisply pressed blue suit, ran his eyes over Panama’s tired outfit. Staring down his nose at Panama and holding up his hand, he said, Your apparel is not appropriate, sir.

I just want to talk to Nino for a minute. Panama replied, searching the crowd.

Once again, the manager’s gaze tracked Panama from head to toe.

He’s sitting over in the corner by the window, he said in a guarded tone, making little effort to hide his irritation.

Thanks, Panama nodded, touching the brim of his dilapidated hat.

As he threaded his way between the tables, Panama felt the eyes of wealthy well-dressed people following him. He did not normally frequent the Turf Club because it made him feel out of place and uncomfortable. When he was half way across the room Sharkey, Nino’s right arm, spotted him. He sat up with arms folded, his dark narrow eyes fastened on Panama as he approached the table.

At thirty-five, Nino Morelli had a smooth face, olive complexion, dark eyes, and sleek black hair combed straight back with sideburns trimmed to a point. He fancied himself a snappy dresser. In 1941, when a man could buy a decent Palm Beach suit off the rack for less than twenty dollars, Nino had his suits specially made for more than two hundred apiece. He wore an off-white linen double-breasted suit with gold buttons, a pale blue shirt, and a white silk tie. Membership in the Turf Club gave Nino the false impression he had arrived and been accepted into Miami society, but no one ever asked him to any of the galas, or swank dinner parties in Palm Beach, or Coconut Grove.

Many people believed Nino Morelli had ties to the Mob, and most of them didn’t know how right they were. A smartly dressed young couple sat across the table from Nino. The woman, a blue-eyed blond with short bobbed hair, wore a shell pink silk dress with matching hat. A diamond as big as the Ritz graced her left hand, but no wedding band. Next to her, a dark featured young man who wore immaculately pressed white linen trousers, white shoes, and a double-breasted dark blue jacket sat impatiently drumming his fingers on the table top. He seemed a little bored with the proceedings and looked as if he wished he were somewhere else.

When Panama reached the table, he sat down in the only remaining seat directly across from Nino. Everyone but Sharkey had their attention on the post parade. Panama made no sign he was aware of Sharkey’s uninterrupted glare. Through binoculars, Nino studied the horses as they walked slowly toward the starting gate.

See anything you like? Panama asked, resting both his hands on the white linen tablecloth in plain view of Sharkey.

Nino took the glasses away from his eyes and turned around.

Well, well, well, if it ain’t the hot-shot handicapper of Hialeah, Nino said smiling as he tossed the glasses aside. This here, ladies and gents, is Panama Boudreaux, a guy who makes his living at the window.

Really? the young woman said and turned to look at Panama, her eyes wide.

This here’s Miss Anne Van Patten and that’s her boyfriend, Henry...er. What’s your last name? Nino asked with a wave of his hand.

Wolsheim, the young man said.

Yeah, Henry Wolsheim.

Panama nodded a hello.

Nino leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Who you like in the fifth?

Five, Panama said. Five in the fifth.

The others turned to look at the odds. From the time it had taken Panama to walk from the Paddock to the Turf Club, the odds had fallen to twenty to one. Nino didn’t take his eyes off Panama, he knew what the odds were.

You must be kidding. Twenty to one? Where do I get some of that action? Nino said with a sly grin.

Right here. Panama said, returning the smile, his hands and forearms motionless on the table.

When Nino realized Panama was serious the smile faded. He shot a nervous glance at the couple across the table.

The blue-eyed blond said, Isn’t that what they call a long shot?

What sort of a bet you want to make? Nino asked.

How much you willing to take? Panama answered back.

Nino glanced at the couple briefly, and returned his attention to Panama.

Anything you wanna bet, I can cover.

A grand on the nose?

Nino adjusted his necktie as if the bet Panama suggested had somehow tightened his collar. Not at twenty to one.

The young couple watched, fascinated. Nino fiddled nervously with the strap on his binoculars while Panama sat quietly, his hands still resting on the table in front of him.

I can’t do better than five. Nino countered.

Panama sensed that Nino didn’t want to be embarrassed, but he also knew it would be a mistake to push the advantage too far. He thought now he should have gone to the window. He decided to leave Nino a way out.

Panama started to get up. Well, looks like we’re too far apart.

Seven.

The couple’s eyes shifted to Panama. Panama knew if he turned Nino away at this point he would look as if he not really had meant to make the bet.

You want make it seven? Then seven it is.

Panama could feel the tension fade away. He folded the bills in a napkin and pushed the napkin across the table to Nino. You want to count it?

Nino shook his head, as he reached out and picked up the folded napkin and placed it in his inside breast pocket.

Your word’s good enough.

He raised his chin and threw back his shoulders. Besides, he said with smile, if the count ain’t right, I’ll take you on a nice long boat ride.

The couple at the table smiled a little nervously, but were obviously enjoying themselves. Only Panama, Nino, and Sharkey knew it wasn’t a joke. Panama got up from the table. He lightly tipped the brim of his worn out his hat, and started to leave.

Stick around, Nino said, trying to sound generous and relaxed, as he motioned the waiter over.

Sit down and lemme buy you a drink. He grinned, Watch the race. See your grand go up in smoke.

Panama sat back down in the chair, took off his hat and put it on the table. I’ll have a Tom Collins, he said to the waiter.

As the waiter took orders from the others, the Turf Club manager approached the table, and stood tersely beside Panama.

I’m afraid I shall have to ask you to leave, sir. As I mentioned previously, your attire is inappropriate.

Nino stared at the manager with cold dark eyes. Sharkey stood up and rolled his shoulders, no longer looking at Panama, his eyes fastened instead on the manager. He looked tough enough to toss back a double shot of boiling lye.

This here’s my guest. Nino hissed, looking the manager in both eyes. You going to throw my guest out?

Mister Morelli there are certain rules …

Listen, Nino interrupted, leaning forward in his chair. Don’t give me the run-around. If I say this guy stays for the next race, he stays for the next race. Capiche? Rapping his knuckles on the tablecloth hard enough to make his point.

In time to Nino’s rap, Sharkey glared at the manager, cracked his knuckles, and rolled back on the heels of his freshly shined shoes.

Very well, Mister Morelli. But, I really must insist that your friend leave at the end of the race. With a quick glance around the table, he turned and walked briskly away.

Toodle-oo, Nino chortled with a fluttered wave of his hand.

Everyone laughed as Sharkey sat down, his eyes back on Panama. Anne Van Paten, whose wide eyes had never left Panama, said, Do you really support yourself at the track? I mean, do you have any other job at all?

No, I don’t have no other job, Panama replied. I just follow the racing circuit. In the winter I spend my time here in Miami. In the spring I go up north and work the eastern tracks - Pimlico, Belmont. In August I go to Saratoga. Then I hit Santa Anita on the West Coast and then back here to Florida.

Looking skeptical, Henry Wolsheim asked, Do you have some sort of system? I mean, can you teach someone how you pick winners?

I don’t always pick winners. The best way not to lose is not to bet.

Do you really think number five is going to win? Anne Van Patten asked.

Lady, would I put a grand on the nose if I didn’t think the horse was going to win?

Miss Van Patten sat back, and crossed her legs demurely under the table. As she did so, the silk of her gartered stockings rustled audibly under her dress making a very pleasant sound as one knee slid smoothly just over the other. The sound of Miss Van Patten’s silkened legs sliding past one another tickled the ears of each man at the table, including Sharkey’s, who took his eyes off Panama, and fastened them on Miss Van Patten’s pert breasts, the nipples of which at that moment could be clearly seen standing