The seaman hitched the painter to a pile at the foot of Meigg’s wharf after a swift row over the bay, and followed the gliding figure of Abie along East Street until the Blubber Room was reached.
“We’ll get some hardware,” explained Abie. “Come in the back room. Sit down. If you want a drink, tell my mother you’re with me.”
The crimp appeared within ten minutes. A black, soft-brimmed hat hid his sharp eyes. A long raincoat reached to his heels. He looked the part of a sleuth, except his weak chin.
“Where are you going, Abie?” asked his mother.
Abie the Crimp leaned over the bar and touched his lips to a muscular arm. He was a good son in many ways.
“We’ll try a place I heard of in Jackson Street,” he told Hansen after they had climbed the stairs from the Blubber Room. “Here, take these handcuffs and this badge. It’s a building inspector’s. Nobody will know the difference where we’re going.”
The seaman crammed two pairs of rusty handcuffs in the side pockets of his pea-jacket. He pinned the badge on his vest.
“I’m James Keenon,” explained Abie. “No crook or Chink knows Keenon in this town. He’s the man behind. He works up the case, scouts around, and lets somebody else do the pinching. He don’t testify at the trials. He’s the brains. The detectives you hear about are his tools.”
“I dank that’s a good way,” said Hansen.
“Of course it’s good—for me! All I have got to do is say I’m Keenon, flash my badge, and you make the arrest.”