Kiss-Kiss, Bang-Bang

If you have not done so already, walk, do not run, to the nearest merchandiser of fine literature for the inimitable portrait of New York City in the 40s parcelled out by Dawn Powell in The Wicked Pavillion, where you will learn, inter alia, of Rick Prescott, who idles away a lonely evening at the Cafe Julien just off Washington Square, dreaming of his lost Ellenora:

He would be in some deadly dull little southern town or on some desolate ranch and suddenly he would ache for Ellenora—not Ellenora as a body, mind you, but Ellenora complete with name band, Blue Angel, Eddie Condon’s, El Morocco, Chinatown, Park Avenue cocktail party, hansom ride in the Park, theatrical lobby chatter between the acts, champagne buckets beside the table, keep the change, taxicab characters, and ha-ha-ha, ho-ho-ho, kiss-kiss, bang-bang, tomorrow same place. This was Ellenora, who, as a matter of actual fact, was never tied with any of these memories. He had never even danced with Ellenora and if he had been to any nightclub with her would certainly have been too polite to leave his drink sitting alone at the table while he whizzed Ellenora around the floor.

Dawn Powell, The Wicked Pavillion,
in Dawn Powell: Novels 1944-62 523-4
(Library of America ed. 2001)

But question: how is it impolite to leave your drink sitting alone?

Fn: Turns out this is post #666, but hey, who's counting?