Phillips leered. “Sure I can get in. Know the guy there. He’s a good guy. He won’t mind. Now come on, let’s get goin’.”
Franklin’s face suddenly brightened. “Sure,” he said; “it ain’t such a bad idea. Let’s go.”
Out in the street they flagged a taxi. The driver looked at them suspiciously. “Where?” he demanded, not believing his ears.
Phillips shoved Franklin into the cab. “The County Morgue,” he repeated patiently. “We’re passin’ in our pails. This is just a matter of convenience, see, buddy?”
The driver climbed off his box. “Now listen, pal,” he said, “you guys don’t want the morgue. You wantta go home. Just you take it easy. I’m useta handlin’ drunks. You leave it to me. Where do you live? Now, come on. I’ll have you in bed before you know it.”
Phillips peered at him, then put his head inside the cab. “Hi, Franky, this guy wants to go to bed with me.”
“Do you like him?” Franky asked.
Phillips turned his head and looked at the driver. “I don’t know. He seems all right.”
The driver wiped his face with his sleeve. “Now listen, you guys,” he said pleadingly, “I ain’t said nuttin’ about gettin’ into bed wid youse.”
Phillips climbed into the cab. “He’s changed his mind,” he said mournfully. “I’ve got a mind to slosh him in the puss.”