Rogers seemed surprised to see him. “You’re late, ain’t you?” he said, peering at his wrist−watch. It was just after two o’clock.
Jay fell in step beside him. “We newspaper guys never sleep,” he said. “How about a little drink? There’s a joint just down here that keeps open all night.”
Rogers shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “I want to get home. I’m tired.”
Jay put his hand on his arm and steered him down a side turning. “Just a short drink, buddy,” he said, “then you can go home.”
They went down some steps to an underground bar. The place was nearly empty. A short, thick−set Italian dozed across the bar. He raised his head sleepily as the two entered.
“Good evenin’,” he said, rubbing the counter−top with a swab. “What will you have?”
“At this time of night, Scotch,” Jay said. “Bring us the bottle over there.” He indicated a table at the far end of the room.
Rogers followed him across and sat down. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “God! I’m tired,” he said. “I wish I could get some other job. This is killin’ me.”
Jay poured out a big shot of whisky in each glass. “I ain’t goin’ to keep you long, but there’s just one little thing you might help me with.”
“Sure, I’d be glad to. What is it?”