Doolin stood on his toes and tried to make out the number above the door but the figures were too faded by weather, time; the electric light was too dim.
He walked down the dark street a half block and then walked back and pressed the button beside the door; the door clicked open and he went through the short passageway into the long barroom.
A bartender wiped off the stained wood in front of him, questioned with his eyes.
Doolin said: “Rye.”
He glanced idly at the men at the bar, at the tables, at the heavily built bald man who sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. The little bald man was stooped over a wide-spread newspaper.
The bartender put a glass on the bar in front of Doolin, put a flat brightly labeled flask beside it.
Doolin said: “Seen Martinelli tonight?”
The bartender watched Doolin pour his drink, picked up the bottle and put it under the bar, said: “Yeah. He came in a little while ago. He’s upstairs.”
Doolin nodded, tasted the rye. It wasn’t too bad. He finished it and put a quarter on the bar, sauntered towards the door at the back of the room.
The little bald man looked up from his paper.