II
At the back of Orchid Buildings there is a narrow alley, used primarily as a parking lot for cars belonging to the executives and their staffs working in the building, and at the far end of the alley you will find Finnegan’s bar.
Mike Finnegan was an old friend of mine: a useful man to know as he had contacts with most of the hoods and con men who arrived in Orchid City, and any shady activity that happened to be cooking he knew about. Some years ago I had taken a hand in a little argument between Finnegan and three toughs whose ambition at that time was to poke Finnegan’s eyes out with a broken whisky bottle. Finnegan seemed to think if it hadn’t been for me he would have lost his sight, and he was embarrassingly grateful.
Besides a source of useful information, Finnegan’s bar was also a convenient after-officehours meeting-place, and, guessing Kerman would be there, I parked the Buick outside and went in with Paula.
It was a little after eleven o’clock, and only a few stragglers remained up at the counter.
Jack Kerman lolled at a corner table, a newspaper spread out before him, a bottle of Scotch within easy reach. He looked up and waved.
As we crossed the room, I flapped a hand at Finnegan, who gave me a broad smile.
Finnegan would never win beauty prize. Built like a gorilla, his battered, scarred face as ugly as it was humorous, he looked a cross between King Kong and a ten-ton truck.
Kerman rose to his feet and gave Paula an elaborate bow.
“Imagine you coming to a joint like this,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve left your vinegar and repressions locked up in the office safe.”