I got out of the cab, peered down a narrow alley, blocked by two iron posts.
“I guess it is,” I said, gave him half a buck.
“Want me to stick around?” he asked. “It don’t look like your home.”
“It isn’t, but don’t wait,” I said, and walked towards the alley.
It was dark; mist from the sea softened the gaunt outlines of the buildings. The single street lamp made a yellow pool of light on the slimy sidewalk. Not far away a ship’s siren hooted. The sound of moving water against the harbour walls was distinct.
I lit a cigarette, moved on. Little Louis had selected a lonely spot for a home, I thought. The buildings I passed were warehouses, most of them in disuse. The property, the taxi driver had told me, had been condemned and was going to be pulled down. It should have been pulled down long ago.
A half-starved black cat appeared out of the shadows, twisted itself around my legs. I stooped, scratched its head, went on. The cat followed me.
Little Louis’s place was the last building in a row of battered wooden ruins. I flipped my cigarette into a puddle, stood back, looked up at the house. The cat moved delicately towards the puddle, sniffed at the cigarette, howled dismally.
“Some joint, puss,” I said.
The building was a three-storey job; no lights showed, most of the windows had rotten planks nailed across them. It was a proper dump, the kind of building Hollywood favours when creating a chiller atmosphere.