“You’ve never seen Dave at Hesse’s?”
Cullen shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“All right. It wouldn’t mean a hell of a lot, anyway.” Kells picked up his glass, drained it, stood up. “I want to use the phone.”
He dialed a number printed in large letters on the cover of the telephone book, asked for the Reporters’ Room. When the connection was made, he asked for Shep Beery, spoke evenly into the instrument: “Listen, Shep, this is Gerry. In a little while you’ll probably have some news for me... Yeah... Call Granite six five one six... And Shep — who copped in the fourth race at Juana?... Thanks, Shep. Got the number?... OK.”
Cullen was pouring drinks. “If all this is as bad as you’re making it look — you have a very trusting nature,” he observed.
Kells was dialing another number. He said, over his shoulder: “I win twenty-four hundred on Kiosque.”
“That’s fine.”
“Perry shot Doc Haardt to death about four o’clock.”
“That’s fine. Where were you?” Cullen was stirring his drink.
Kells jiggled the hook up and down. “Goddamn telephones,” he said. He dialed the number again, then turned his head to smile at Cullen. “I was here.”