“The Three-Star? Where is it?”
“Fourteenth near Broad.”
“Thanks,” Gallegher said. He went out, with a longing look at the bar. Not now—not yet. There was business to attend to first.
The Three-Star was a gin mill, with dirty pictures on the walls. They moved in a stereoscopic and mildly appalling manner. Gallegher, after a thoughtful examination, looked the customers over. There weren’t many. A huge man at one end of the bar attracted his attention because of the gardenia in his lapel and the flashy diamond on his ring ringer.
Gallegher went toward him. “Mr. Cuff?”
“Right,” said the big man, turning slowly on the bar-stool like Jupiter revolving on its axis. He eyed Gallegher, librating slightly. “Who’re you?”
“I’m—”
“Never mind,” said Cuff, winking. “Never give your right name after you’ve pulled a job. So you’re on the lam, eh?”
“What?”
“I can spot ’em as far away as I can see ’em. You…you… hey!” Cuff said, bending forward and sniffing. “You been drinking! ”