He whirled on the bookkeeper and said, “Better not, youngster.”
The youth gaped at him, his hand reaching into an open drawer. A pistol lay on top of some papers inside.
“I’ll take the gun before you hurt yourself,” Shayne said. He reached out a long arm for the weapon, pocketed it, and lowered himself to the desk. “All I want is the home address of Baldy, one of the bartenders here.”
“B-Baldy? Y-You mean Dave Preston?”
“If he’s the bald-headed one, yeh.”
“I–I’ve got it right here.” The frightened bookkeeper nervously scrambled through the drawer for a memorandum book.
“Write it down for me on a slip of paper,” Shayne directed. He lit a cigarette and smoked lazily while the man wrote. He pocketed the slip of paper, lifted himself from the shining mahogany desk, and said, “If this isn’t right, you’re going to wish to God it had been.”
Glancing at Johnny, who lay very still on the floor, Shayne started for the door. Turning abruptly, he went back. “There’s something else. Where does Arch keep his markers?”
“Markers? I don’t know what—”
“IOU’s,” Shayne interpreted irritably. “His record of gambling-debts of birds who couldn’t pay off.”