Chapter 13
I didn’t know Perry Street much, and was surprised when I walked up in front of number 203, across the street, having left the roadster half a block away. It was quite a joint, stucco to look like Spanish, with black iron entrance lamps and no fire escapes. On both sides were old brick houses. A few cars were parked along the block, and a couple of taxis. On my side of the street was a string of dingy stores: stationery, laundry, delicatessen, cigar store and so on. I moved along and looked in. At the delicatessen I stopped and went inside. There were two or three customers, and Fred Durkin was leaning against the end of the counter with a cheese sandwich and a bottle of beer. I turned around and went out, and walked back down to where the roadster was and got inside. In a couple of minutes Fred came along and climbed in beside me. He was still chewing and working his tongue in the corners. He asked me what was up. I said, nothing, I had just come down to gossip. I asked him:
“Where’s the other club members?”
He grinned. “Oh, they’re around. The city feller is probably in the laundry, I think he likes the smell. I suppose Pinkie is down at the next corner, in the Coffee Pot. He usually deserts his post around this time to put on the nose bag.”
“You call him Pinkie?”
“Oh, I can call him anything. That’s for his necktie. What do you want me to call him?”
I looked at him. “You’ve had one or ten drinks. What’s the big idea?”
“I swear to God I haven’t, Archie. I’m just glad to see you. It’s lonesome as hell around here.”
“You chinned any with this Pinkie?”
“No. He’s reticent. He hides somewhere and thinks.”