“I want you to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Come into the back room and I’ll order some booze,” said Patsy. “There’s no one in there. I’ll tell you while we fire a ball or two.”
This proposition suited Flynn to the letter, particularly since learning that he was not to be arrested, but rather was in a fair way to acquire further consideration on the part of the detective.
“I’m with you,” he nodded. “That’s good enough for me.”
Patsy led the way into a dingy rear room and rang for one of the bartenders. He appeared in a moment and took the order, presently returning with the drinks. Patsy paid him, and then closed the door, drawing a chair to the bare table, at which Flynn had seated himself.
“Now, Pilot, we’ll get down to business,” he said quietly, with an assurance the other did not quite fancy. “When did you last see Bug Bannon?”
“I dunno,” said Flynn, crafty-eyed. “It must be a week, sure, since I had me lamps on him.”
“You’re pretty good friends, aren’t you?”
“For all I know.”