Fenner sat at one end of the divan. Hanline, Fenner’s secretary, sat beside him, then Abe Gowdy, Fenner’s principal contact man with the liberal element. They hadn’t been able to reach Dickinson.
Gowdy swung the vote of practically every gambler, grafter, bootlegger and so on in the county, except the few independents who tried to get along without protection. He was a bald, paunchy man with big white bulbs of flesh under his eyes, a loose pale mouth. He wore dark, quiet clothes; didn’t drink.
Hanline was a curly-haired, thin-nosed Jew. He drank a great deal.
He and Beery and Kells all drank a great deal.
Kells got up and walked to one of the windows. He said: “Try him again.”
Fenner reached wearily for the phone, asked for a Fitzroy number, listened a little while and hung up.
Kells turned, came back and stopped near Fenner, looked first at Gowdy, then Hanline.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Lee” — he indicated Fenner with a fond pat on the shoulder — “Lee and I have entered into a partnership.” He paused, picked up a small glass full of whiskey and cracked ice, drank most of it.
“We all know,” he went on, “that things haven’t been so good the last three or four years — and we know that unless some very radical changes are made in the city government things won’t get any better.” Hanline nodded slightly.
“Lee and I have talked things over and decided to join forces.” Kells put down the glass.