But I didn’t go back. I ran down the four flights of stairs to the front entrance where Kerman was waiting for me in the Buick.
V
There were four of us: Mike Finnegan, Kerman, myself and a worried looking little guy wearing a black, greasy, slouch hat, no coat, a dirty shirt and soiled white ducks. We sat in the back room of Delmonico’s bar, a bottle of Scotch and four glasses on the table, and a lot of tobacco smoke cluttering up the air.
The little guy in the greasy hat was Joe Dexter. He owned a haulage business, and ran freight to the ships anchored in the harbour. Finnegan claimed he was a friend of his, but by the way he was acting you wouldn’t have known it.
I had put my proposition to him, and he was sitting staring at me as if he thought I was crazy.
“Sorry, mister,” he said at last. “I couldn’t do it. It’d ruin my business.”
Kerman was lolling in his chair, a cigarette hanging from his lips, his eyes closed. He opened one eye as he said, “Who cares about a business? You want to relax, brother. There’re more things in life than a business.”
Dexter licked his lips, scowled at Kerman and squirmed in his chair. He turned pleadingly to Mike.
“I can’t do it,” he said; “not a thing like this. The Dream Ship is one of my best customers.”
“She won’t be for much longer,” I said. “Cash in while the going’s good. You’ll make a hundred bucks on this deal.”