Pinckney wants to do the thing right away, too. First off, though, he has to locate Spotty. The youth has been at large for a week or more now, since he was last handed the fresh air, and Pinckney ain’t heard a word from him.
“Maybe Swifty knows where he roosts,” says I.
It was a good guess. Swifty gives us a number on Fourth-ave. where he’d seen Spotty hangin’ around lately, and he thinks likely he’s there yet.
So me and Pinckney starts out on the trail. It leads us to one of them Turkish auction joints where they sell genuine silk oriental prayer rugs, made in Paterson, N. J., with hammered brass bowls and antique guns as a side line. And, sure enough, camped down in front on a sample rug, with his hat off and the sun full on him, is our friend Spotty.
“Well, well!” says Pinckney. “Regularly employed here, are you, Spotty?”
“Me? Nah!” says Spotty, lookin’ disgusted at the thought. “I’m only stayin’ around.”
“Ain’t you afraid the sun will fade them curly locks of yours?” says I.
“Ah, quit your kiddin’!” says Spotty, startin’ to roll a fresh cigarette.
“Don’t mind Shorty,” says Pinckney. “I have some good news for you.”
That don’t excite Spotty a bit. “Not another job!” he groans.