I gobbled a dry martini and hurried back through the reed curtain to
the dining room.
The eighty-five cent dinner tasted like a discarded mail-bag and was
served to me by a waiter who looked as if he would slug me for a
quarter, cut my throat for six bits and bury me at sea in a barrel of
comcrete for a dollar and a half plus sales tax.
-- Raymond Chandler
