Ackie shook his head. “Just as soon as you get out of here I’m goin’ to sleep,” he said firmly.
I shrugged. “There’s a whole bottle of rye waiting,” I told him.
Ackie got to his feet hastily. “Why not say so before?” he demanded. “Where the hell’s my hat?”
On the way down to my apartment Ackie talked ball games. He didn’t know much about the game, but he liked to air his views. I let him talk. I’d got things to think about.
Once I got him in an armchair with a big rye and ginger in his hand, I got down to things.
“This ain’t to go further, Mo,” I began, putting my feet on the table, “but it looks to me like I’ve gotta put the cards down before you’ll give me a hand. I want help, Mo, and I want it from you.”
Ackie grunted, but he didn’t say anything.
“I stand to pick up ten grand if I start a row about Vessi’s execution,” I said.
Ackie looked up sharply. “Who’s slippin’ you the dough?”
I shook my head. “That’s under my lid,” I said. “Ten grand’s nice money, and from what I’ve picked up already there’s something mighty phoney about Vessi’s case. It begins to look as if it was a frame-up from the very start.”