“Next week”—the shadow of a smile playing across his face—“I won't believe it. But it sounds like th' real t'ing now.”
The door of the Bal Tabarin opened to the advent of a weasel-eyed individual.
“Hello, Whitey!” exclaimed Weasel-eye cheerily, shaking hands with Whitey Dutch. “I just leaves a namesake of yours; an' say, he's in bad!”
“W'at namesake?”
“Whitey Louie. A bunch of them West Side guerrillas has him cornered, over in a dump at Twenty-seventh Street and Seventh Avenoo. It looks like there'd be somethin' doin'; an', as I don't Avant no part of it, I screws out.”
At the name of Whitey Louie, Ike the Blood arose to his feet.
“Whitey Louie?” he questioned; “Seventh Avenoo an' Twenty-seventh Street?”
“That's th' ticket,” replied Weasel-eye; “an' youse can cash on it.”
Ike the Blood hurried out the door.
“Whitey Louie is Ike's closest pal,” observed Whitey Dutch, explaining the hurried departure. “Will there be trouble?” I asked.