Cullen went into the kitchen and came back with tall glasses, a bowl of ice and a squat bottle.
Kells said: “Well, Willie—”
Cullen held up his hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Make me guess.” He closed his eyes, went through the motions of mystic communion, then opened his eyes, sat down and poured two drinks. “You’re in another jam,” he said.
Kells twisted his mouth into a wholly mirthless smile, nodded. “You’re a genius, Willie.” He sipped his drink, leaned back.
Cullen sat down.
Kells said: “You know Max Hesse pretty well. You’ve been out to his house in Flintridge.” Sure.
“Do you know what Dave Perry looks like?”
“No.”
Kells put his glass down. “A little patent-leather, pop-eyed guy with a waxed mustache. Wears gray silk shirts with tricky brocaded stripes. Used to run a string of trucks down from Frisco — had some kind of warehouse connection up there. Stood a bad rap on some forged Liberty Bonds about a year ago and went broke beating it. Married Grant Fay’s sister when he was on top.”
“I’ve seen her,” Cullen said. “Nice dish.”