Chapter six:
Dead stoolies don’t sing
Ex-cops never make good house officers. In uniform, they get too used to pushing people around, can’t overcome the habit. That bulldozing approach makes ’em liabilities around a hotel. This Hacklin was demonstrating.
He wasn’t actually a blue, still he had the law behind him. But I couldn’t let him snap that Simon Legree lash at me. Not so any bellman or floor maids could overhear him; the Chinese aren’t the only people sensitive about face. So I threw the first punch.
“Don’t mind my taking that call-back from Lieutenant Weissman, when it comes?”
All I meant was to jolt him out of that browbeating frame of mind. Show him I had friends over at the precinct. What my phoney question did, though, was bring him to me, jaw a-jutting.
“You phoned Harry Weissman?”
“Why not? Harry’s handled grief like this for us before.”
We do get along with the precinct badges; hand them a pinch on a platter now and again.
“You actually speak to him?” The whites of Hacklin’s eyes looked like the bluish skin of a hard-boiled egg left too long in the icebox.