The patrolman shook his head sadly. “Where you from?” he asked.
“San Francisco.”
“You’re in the big city now, buddy.” The patrolman sneered at Kells, the car, the sky. He seemed lost in thought for a half-minute, then he said: “All right. Now you know.”
Kells drove up Fourth to the top of the hill. His eyes were half closed and there was an almost tender expression on his face. He swore softly, continuously, obscenely. His anger had worn itself out by the time he had parked the car on Grand and walked down the steep hill to the rear entrance of the Biltmore. He got off the elevator at the ninth floor, walked past the questioning stare of the woman at the key desk, down a long hall, knocked at the door of Suite 9D.
Rose opened the door. He stood silently, motionlessly for perhaps five seconds, then he ran his tongue over his lower lip and said: “Come in.”
Kells went into the room.
A husky, pale-eyed young man was straddling a small chair, his elbows on the back of it, his chin between his hands. His sand-colored hair was carefully combed down over one side of his forehead. His mouth hung a little open and he breathed through it regularly, audibly.
Rose said: “This is Mister O’Donnell of Kansas City... Mister Kells.”
The young man stood up, still straddling the chair, held out a pink hand. “Glad t’ know you.”
Kells shook his hand cursorily, said: “I stopped by for my dough.”