He found Sam sitting at the wheel of a small tourer that had seen better days. Duffy climbed in beside him. “Where’s this joint, anyway?” he asked.
Sam let in the clutch with a bang, the car jerked forward, and then stalled. Duffy didn’t say anything, he was used to it. Sam pulled the starter, reversed the engine, and let the clutch in again. The car pulled away from the kerb, making a noise like a beehive.
“The Plaza?” Sam said; “it’s near Manhattan Bridge.”
“Know the place?” Duffy asked.
“Sure,” Sam said. “This is a hot joint. I used to go there a bit in the old days.” Sam always called the time he was single ‘the old days’. “It’s tough, and packed with hot pants. You wait.”
Duffy leant back. “Sounds all right,” he said.
Sam drove two blocks in silence, then he said, “You telling me the news?”
Duffy gave him a cigarette. “I looked up Cattley’s dump today. Annabel turned up. She was looking for something. She found it, and so did I.” He touched the scratches with his fingers and grinned. “I bet that honey’s as mad as a hornet right now.”
Sam swerved to avoid a big Cadillac, grabbed his handbrake and shouted, “You street pushover,” to the fat driver.
Duffy took no notice; he had driven with Sam before. “What did you find?” Sam asked.