V
I parked the Buick in the forecourt of the apartment house on Jefferson Avenue and walked into the quiet of the lobby.
A girl, not the foxy-faced Gracie, was sitting behind the counter, the telephone harness hitched to her chest. She was chewing gum and reading the funnies, and from the bored expression on her face I concluded they were no funnier than those Gracie had been reading the first time I had come in here.
Maxie, the bowler-hatted bouncer, popped out from behind his pillar and scowled at me.
‘Hello,’ I said, and gave him the teeth. ‘Where do we talk?’ His small eyes, set deep in the fat-veined face, showed suspicion and surprise.
‘What do we want to talk for?’ he growled, his moustache bristling. ‘I haven’t anything to say to you. Besides, I’m busy.’
That seemed to be the cue for the mercenary theme, so I took out my bill-fold and hoisted a ten-dollar bill into sight.
‘Let’s go somewhere quiet and talk,’ I said.
He studied the ten-dollar note thoughtfully, groped with a thick, dirty finger amongst his back molars, fished out a slab of something and deposited it on the seat of his trousers. Then he looked at the girl behind the counter.
‘Hey! I’ll be downstairs if you want me. Don’t let anyone up.’