“Right now. Let’s get going.”
Drake’s loquacious good humor evaporated under the influence of the lawyer’s savage grimness. He essayed a quip or two, then lapsed into a silence which persisted until he parked the car in front of the rooming house. “This is the joint,” he said. “Are you going to get rough with him, Perry?”
“I’m going to get rough with everyone,” the lawyer said, “until I smoke someone into the open. Come on, let’s go.”
In silence they opened the car doors, slammed them shut, and entered the rooming house. There was no one at the desk, and Drake said, “It’s on the second floor near the back. I have the number of the room.”
They climbed creaking stairs, pounded their way down a thin ribbon of worn, faded carpet which stretched between the rows of doors down the length of the upper corridor. Drake silently motioned to a door.
Mason knocked.
A man’s reedy voice on the other side of the door said, “Who is it?”
“The name’s Mason,” the lawyer said.
The voice sounded now closer to the door. “What is it?”
“News.”