From The High Window by Raymond Chandler. Marlowe is in a drugstore.
I got down off the stool and walked to the door in a silence that was as loud as a ton of coal going down a chute. The man in the black shirt and yellow scarf was sneering at me over the New Republic.
“You ought to lay off that fluff and get your teeth into something solid, like a pulp magazine,” I told him, just to be friendly.