Mayola was good— damn good.
Her gown was black, slit half-way up to the thigh, showing lovely ankles and legs; her body, sinuous now with the quicker music, brought a new light into the eyes of the tired men who watched her, an amused or envious expression into those of the women with them.
Callaghan looked at her face. The clearly cut features, chiselled mouth, well-set ears, expressed character— and strength. Her eyes, dark, glowing, showed a steely glitter that was caught and reflected by the spotlight as she turned this way and that. Her rounded chin curved on each side of her oval face into a clearly defined high jaw-line.
Mayola was tough all right, thought Callaghan. Into his mind came the modernized version of an old song: 'You can always tell a man by his friends— his lady frie
