I grinned, but I wasn’t feeling so good. “Quit ribbing me,” I said, “and hang on to that dollar. You know it’s the first piece of money you ever earned.”
McCue put the dollar back into his pocket, “I was forgetting,” he said. “Anyway, it’s as good as a tenement fire to see you again. I hear you’re out.”
“The Recorder’s washed me out, if that’s what you mean,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “But, I’ve got a great future ahead of me.”
“That’s what the guy said when they stuck him on the hot seat. But, then he was only foolin’,” McCue said dryly. “What kind of a corny stunt was that you and Maddox thought up?”
“Never mind,” I said, stirring my coffee. “Let the dead rest in peace. What’s cookin’ now?” McCue returned to the telephone book, “We’ve got a new lead on the Wilson killing,” he said. “I’ve gotta phone a dame.” He found the number and pulled the battered telephone that stood on the bar towards him. It had no mouthpiece and the cord was frayed and knotted.
“When did you get back from Mexico?”
“A few days ago,” I said, watching him dial. “You want to try Mexico sometime. It’s a swell place.”
“You can have it,” he said, “I wouldn’t know what to do with sand and horses.” The telephone went plop and I heard a faint tinny voice snap something in McCue’s ear. He shifted forward on his stool, “Is this the residence of Miss Gloria Hope-Dawn?” he asked.
“For cryin’ out loud,” I said astonished. “Is that a long distance to Hollywood?”
“Naw,” he returned, grinning, “just a little tarnished glamour from the East Side.” He turned his attention to the telephone, “Hello, there. Miss Gloria Hope-Dawn? This is Mr. McCue of the Telegram. Yeah. Is it true Harry Wilson gave you a mink coat last year?”