He spotted the mean-faced gangster standing at the end of the crude bar. Without more ado, the newcomer sidled over and nudged against the man at the bar. Dip flung him a sullen look. The stranger grinned.
“Say” — his voice was low — “you’re Dip Riker, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” growled Dip. “What of it?”
The newcomer leaned close and whispered into the gangster’s ear.
“I’ve been looking for you,” were his words. “Just came in from Chicago. Ran into Pete Boutonne in Buffalo. He told me to look you up.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Gravy, fellow, gravy! Pete tells me you don’t like these rods that hang around New York. Said you fixed him up with a job, because he was clear of all the mobs. Then he had to scram out of New York, so you let him go. Thought he’d be doing you a favor if he sent me to see you.”
Dip Riker was interested. He remembered that Flash Donegan was on the point of letting Marty Jennings go. When that would occur, it would be Dip’s job to bring in a new gunman.
Dip had no one in mind at the present. It was worth while to become acquainted with a Chicago gat-wielder who was recommended by one of Donegan’s old standbys.
“What’s your name?” asked Dip.