The cab stopped in front of the drugstore, the driver turned around and looked at Shane questioningly.
Shane blew out a great cloud of gray-blue smoke, glanced at the youth, said: “Where do you want to go?”
“This is oke for me.” The youth leaned forward, put his hand on the inside handle of the door. Then he paused, turned his head slightly towards Shane.
“I’m in a spot, Mister Shane. My wife’s sick — an’ I took an awful beating on the races the other day, trying to get enough jack for an operation...”
Shane said: “Does anybody besides your partner know about Mrs. Rigas?”
The youth shook his head.
Shane tipped his hat back on his head, drew two fingers across his forehead, said: “I’ll see what I can do about it. Where do you live?”
The youth took a card out of his pocket, took out a thin silver pencil and wrote something on it. He handed the card to Shane, said, “So long,” and got out of the cab and ran across the sidewalk to the drugstore.
Shane said: “Downtown.”
On Twelfth Street, a little way off Sixth Avenue, Shane rapped on the glass, the cab swung to the curb. He told the driver to wait, got out and went down a narrow passageway between two buildings to a green wooden door with a dim electric light above it. He opened the door, knocked on another heavier door set at an angle to the first. It was opened after a little while and he went down four wide steps to a long and narrow room with a bar along one side.