As Ken drove the dance master to the Rendezvous, he heard lavish praise of Mr. Lowell.
"La's a powerful friend, Ken," said Nolan. "Would it surprise you to know that he put me in business?"
"Not at all. But tell me, Bud, how come Jimmy Smith doesn't like him?"
Nolan rubbed the moonstone on his cheek and gazed quizzically at Ken. Then he began to chuckle.
"Called you a name, I bet."
"No—"
"He's not the type, Ken. Forget him."
"Don't say anything to him about it, will you?"
"I never talk to that kind about personal matters. Don't let La Lowell hear you gossip about him to outsiders."
"I didn't say a word, Bud."
Ken was vaguely nervous as he entered the Rendezvous. It was a large, rambling house of shingles streaked with patches of faded color. A low wall almost hid it from the view of passersby. Within, a long room, tables set before benches which lined the walls.
Bud was greeted by Jackie Jackol, a square-chinned woman of forty-five, husky-voiced, loose-limbed, hair plastered closely against her rounded head.
The Rendezvous was half-filled. Nearly all the guests were men although, in a dim corner, sat a quartette of young women.
"This is the place to come if you want to be free," said Bud. "By that, I don't mean that you can't enjoy yourself elsewhere. But I'm sure you feel the peace of this room. I'd rather drink bad gin here than champagne at the Cocoa-nut Grove."
