She seemed to have a lot to say about that, because McCue closed his eyes and glued his ear to the receiver and listened.
“All tight, all right,” he said at last, “I’ve got to ask questions. It’s part of my job.”
He listened some more, then suddenly broke in, “Listerine’s about the best kind of mouth wash. You ought to try it sometime,” and hung up. He mopped his face with a dirty handkerchief, “Where these dames learn all their language beats me,” he said mournfully. “I guess I’ll have to go round and see her. Wilson couldn’t have bought her that fur coat to keep her warm. She’s like a blast furnace.”
I told myself that I was going to miss working on the Recorder. You only had to smell a little press atmosphere to realize just how much it all meant. In Mexico, it was different, but right here in New York, it was a swell game.
“Well, I’d better be moving,” McCue said, sliding off his stool. “You’ll be around, won’t you? Got any plans?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, “I’ve got more than my arm up my sleeve. It’ll take a battalion of punks like Maddox to rattle me.”
He looked at me thoughtfully, “Yeah,” he said, “I suppose it will,” and waving his hand, he went to the door. He nearly banged into Dowdy who came hurrying in, an anxious expression on his thin hatchet face.
McCue said, “You’d better watch your till, Willy, here’s another guy from the Recorder,” and he went off down the Street.
Dowdy refused coffee and sat on the stool with a miserable expression on his face and his eye on the door. I could see that I wasn’t going to get a lot of help from him and the sooner I let him get back to the office the better he’d like it.
“Where’s Shumway?” I asked, abruptly.