“Where is he?”
“He’s around. He was behind us on the ride just now — there he goes, look, the Coffee Pot. He must have gone down Eleventh. He takes chances. It’s time for his chow.”
I had seen him going in. I said, “All right. Now listen. I’m going to funny up your joke for you. You and the town dick are pals.”
“Well, we speak.”
“Find him. Do they sell beer at that joint on the corner?—Okay. Take him there and quench his thirst. On expense. Keep him there until my car’s gone from in front of the Coffee Pot. I’m going to take Pinkie for a ride.”
“No! I’ll be damned. Keep his necktie for me.”
“All right. Let’s go. Beat it.”
He climbed out and went. I sat and waited. Pretty soon I saw him come out of the laundry with the snoop, and start off in the other direction. I stepped on the starter and pushed the gear lever, and rolled along. This time I stopped right in front of the Coffee Pot. I got out and went in. I saw no cop around.
Pinkie was there, at the same table as before, with what looked like the same bowl of soup. I glanced at the other customers, on the stools, and observed nothing terrifying. I walked over to Pinkie and stopped at his elbow. He looked up and said:
“Well, goddam it.”