And the latter course he dared not even consider--the Sanctuary was still the Sanctuary, and the role of Larry the Bat was still a refuge, the trump card in the lone hand he played.
He reached the corner, pushed open the door of Bristol Bob's, and shuffled in.

The place was a glare of light, a hideous riot of noise.

On a polished section of the floor in the centre, a turkey trot was in full swing; laughter and shouting vied raucously with an impossible orchestra.
Jimmie Dale slowly made the circuit of the room past the tables, that, ranged around the sides, were packed with occupants who thumped their glasses in tempo with the music and clamoured at the rushing waiters for replenishment.

A dozen, two dozen, men and women greeted him.

Jimmie Dale indifferently returned their salutes.