Solly Allenberg, short and fat, was sitting in his cab near the corner of Forty-ninth and Broadway, when Green crossed the street to him.
Allenberg stopped short in the middle of a yawn and his face lit up like a chubby Christmas tree.
“Hello, Mister Green,” he croaked heartily. “Where you been keeping yourself?”
Green leaned on the door.
“I’ve been around,” he said. “How’ve you been doing Solly? How are the kids?”
“Swell, Mister Green, just swell. The wife was asking about you just the other night. I told her—”
Green interrupted quietly: “Lew Costain’s been murdered.”
Solly’s thick mouth fell open slowly. “Murdered? What the hell you talking about?”
Green’s head bobbed up and down.
“He was at Tony Maschio’s tonight when the firecracker went off — he and Gino...”