The last of the fight fans would be surging out of the Garden. The first of the theater crowd would be straggling into the Calypso Room. I was tired and puzzled and uneasy as a cat on a hot stove; Lanerd’s disappearance bothered me. Everything I knew about him indicated he’d be the sort to keep in touch at a time when the storm signals were flying.
The burgery wasn’t chock-full of chic; what it was full of was cabbage and beef-stew odors. But there were a couple of motorcycles out in the oval; they had state licenses. Those road cops seldom patronize places where the grub isn’t first chop.
“T-bone and French frys,” I told the shorty behind the counter.
“Smothered?”
“Uh, uh.” That’s a cross all hotel men have to bear. No onions. Ever.
I consoled myself with a jug of brew, took it into a phone booth that smelled like a smoking car on the Erie.
When I got through to Tim, I forgot about the smell. “That hophead,” he boomed excitedly. “That Al Gowriss and so forth!”
“Remember your blood pressure. What about him?”
“Maxie — on car four — he made this hophead right away, soon’s Morry showed him the flyer. Maxie was off duty, but Morry got hold of him, called him back to check.”
“Gowriss in the house?”