“The man who was in here playing the slot machines last night.”
“You mean Sid Jannix, the one-round kid?”
“The police think his name is Harry Beegan.”
“I tell you, he’s Sid Jannix. I knew the minute I saw him swing that left shoulder up in front of his jaw, and wind up his right, it was the old Jannix crouch. Boy, that used to get ’em. He’d come plowin’—”
“Listen, Louie, I want you to do something.”
“Oh, yes, sure. Sure, I’ll do anything you want. What is it, buddy?”
“I want you to go down to the morgue and identify the body. Not as that of the man you had the trouble with last night when he was doctoring the slot machines, but as that of Sid Jannix, an old prize-fighter friend. Spread it on about how you fought him once—”
“But I never did.”
“It wasn’t a formal match, just an informal practice match that was arranged in the gymnasium.”
“Jeeps, buddy, I don’t want to go to no morgue.”