“I’m going up to see.”
Cardona arrived at the door of Arnold Bodine’s apartment on the eighteenth floor. It was opened in answer to his rap. Joe shouldered his way in past the man who stood there. He encountered an individual whose face bore a long, twisting scar.
“Hello, Crayton,” said Cardona. “Bodine come in yet?”
“No,” was the response. The man was one of Bodine’s bodyguards. “But he’s liable to drop in any minute. What’s the idea of you coming up? You’ve had a couple of gawky-looking dicks on the floor all afternoon.”
“I’ll talk to Bodine when he comes in,” declared Cardona.
“All right,” was the response. “Make yourself at home.”
The words were spoken with assurance. Crayton knew well that Cardona was not after Bodine. The big shot had been inactive for months, living on tribute and reputation.
“You don’t know where Bodine is?” questioned Cardona.
Crayton appeared puzzled at first; then decided to be frank with Cardona.
“Listen,” he said. “If you’re worrying about him, forget it. He’s out— and when he’s out, nobody knows where he is. I don’t need to tell you that he’s O.K. the minute he walks into the lobby of this hotel. Sometimes he stays out all night, but tonight he’s coming back sure.”