The old man cackled. “Well I never saw such guts,” he said.
I said: “All right, gentlemen. Maybe I’ll call you later.”
Stokes went downstairs with me. He smiled in a strange way. “I never knew the old man to go for anything that look’s as tricky as this. I guess it looks good because Ben thinks you’re working for him.”
I nodded. I said: “Uh huh — Ben’s a swell guy. He’ll probably blast me on sight.”
“I don’t think you’ll find him at his joint.”
I waited and Stokes leaned against the door, said: “There’s a big outfit downstate that’s been running twelve trucks a week through here from the Border. They’ve paid off for this division of the highway for years — to the old man. The last two convoys have been hi-jacked at Four-mile Creek, north of town — a couple drivers were killed...”
He paused, looked wise a minute, went on: “That was Ben. There was a convoy due through last night — they run in bunches of four, or six — it didn’t show up. It’s a cinch for tonight — and that’s where Ben’ll be.”
I said: “That’s fine. How do I get there?”
Stokes told me to follow the main highway north, and where to take the cutoff that crossed Four-mile. I thanked him and went out.
I walked down to a drugstore on the corner and called a cab. When it came, I got in and had the driver jockey around until he was parked in a spot where I could watch the front door of the McCary house.