“Maddox!” I said. “Well, how do you like that?” I pushed my hat to the back of my head and looked at Murphy more in anger than in sorrow. “Well, don’t let it get you down. You’re only doing your job. Look, I want a word with Dowdy. Will you get hold of him and tell him to come over to Joe’s?”
“You bet, Mr. Millan,” Murphy said, brightening up. “I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him right away.” I went over to Joe’s poolroom, behind the Recorder’s Office end I felt sore. I’d worked for this sheet for almost ten years and it was like my second home. It was like being one of the orphans in the storm.
McCue of the Telegram was the only guy in Joe’s. He was sitting at the bar on a high stool thumbing through a telephone book when I blew in.
Both he and the barman stared at me as if I was something out of a zoo.
“Hey, Mac,” I said with a grin, “isn’t it your bed-time?”
He screwed up his big rubbery face and then offered a limp hand, “Ross Millan,” he said as if he couldn’t believe it, “I thought you’d committed hara-kiri in the desert.”
“Mornin’ Willy,” I said to the barman, “how about a coffee?”
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Millan,” he said, going over to the urn, “we miss guys like you.”
“Only because we pay our way,” I said, pulling up a stool and sitting down. “These desk newshounds want everything on the cuff.”
McCue took out a dollar and laid it on the counter, “Willy,” he said, “I’m paying for that coffee. I consider it an honour to pay for anything that’ll sustain the guy who cost Maddox twenty-five grand.”