A word to the Italian waiter was sufficient. Cliff was conducted to the back of the restaurant. Here was a small barroom, with tables. Along one side ran a partition, with curtained openings. They indicated smaller rooms.
A waiter came out through one of the doorways, carrying a tray. Cliff gave an order. A bottle and a glass were brought to the table that he had taken. The waiter went out; a few minutes later, the man at the bar also disappeared. Cliff was left alone in the room.
This was his opportunity. He slipped into the doorway next to the one through which the waiter had come. He was in a small room that held a table and a few chairs.
THE partition between this room and the next did not extend to the ceiling. Cliff leaned close to it and listened. He could hear the voice of Ernie Shires.
“All right, Ben,” the gangster was saying. “I’ll fix you with the dough. Let’s have another drink. O.K.?”
“All right, Ernie,” came Ben’s reply. “But listen, bo, this thing is going to make Bart sore, anyway. It’s going to work out bad.”
“Forget it, Ben.”
Cliff could hear the gurgle of liquid being poured from a bottle.
“Here’s the trouble,” said Ben. “You know how things work down at the docks. Every load of freight that comes in is handled by our men — ‘public loaders,’ we call them — and it’s a great racket.
“If some importer gets a big shipment, he sends his trucks down. He finds the freight on the pier. Our men load it on for him. Three cents a hundred pounds is the regular rate — but we hold them up for more right along.”