Pardon My Body

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Book: Pardon My Body Read Online Free PDF
Author: Dale Bogard
the bar resting his elbows on the polished top and reading the early edition track odds. There wasn’t a soul in the place. The clientele is made up of guys who don’t greet the new day until it’s half-over—musicians, gamblers, bookmakers and assorted fly-by-nights. It would be another thirty minutes before the advance guard made a preliminary sortie for healing refreshment. I had time to do what I wanted.
    I knew Mike had seen me even though he didn’t look up. He said, still not looking up, “Hallo, Mr. Bogard. What’ll it be?”
    â€œYou can draw me off a beer,” I said, “and give yourself a slug of bourbon.”
    Mike set up the drinks. Along with his saloon he didn’t change much, either. The grizzled, short-cropped hair, slightly weather-beaten face and muscular frame still looked the way they did when I hit New York half a decade ago.
    â€œAin’t seen you around lately,” he offered at last.
    I drank a third of my beer and carefully set the glass down, with both hands clasped round it. “Mike,” I said, “I want you to tell me something. If you can.”
    â€œSure, Mr. Bogard—if I can.” Suddenly, those Irish blue eyes were narrowly cautious.
    â€œI am looking,” I said carefully, “for a slim young man of about twenty-eight wearing ash-blond hair and a long knife scar down the right side of his face.”
    There was an unhurried silence. Mike’s face wore the kind of revealing look you see on a slab of marble.
    I waited. Mike said, “I ain’t seen no guy like that in here.”
    â€œMike,” I said, “I know you always speak the truth to me. That is why I never have to say anything about you to Detective-lieutenant O’Cassidy.”
    Those unsmiling Irish eyes were as hard as a con man’s heart as he sells a hot line to a nice old lady living off the interest on ten grand and with five years’ mortgage still to pay.
    â€œThere ain’t nothing about me O’Cassidy needn’t know,” he said slowly feeling his way. “This is a respectable saloon, as you well know, Mr. Bogard.”
    â€œSure it is, Mike,” I said easily. “And if times get a little tough in the saloon, why, who should blame Mike Hannigan for helping things along a bit on the side by letting off a room when needed to gentlemen who can’t stand Detective O’Cassidy and want some innocent meeting-place to talk over their business?”
    Mike refilled the glasses without being asked. Then: “I’ve given you many a tipoff for your newspaper, Mr. Bogard—but I hear you’ve quit and I don’t hand out information anyway that ain’t for printing.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” I told him. “Just the same, I wouldn’t like to have the johns take the joint apart for the sake of a quibble.”
    Mike spun his little glass in his heavy fingers. Without a change of expression he said, “There’s a friend of yours been staying here since last night. Room 13. A pleasant young gentleman.”
    â€œI’ll go up,” I said.
    Silently, Mike handed me a pass-key. “He said we weren’t to disturb him. I don’t want no trouble…”
    I gave my best smile an airing. “Do I look like trouble? This is a social call.”
    But I wasn’t smiling as I climbed the faintly carpeted stairs to the first of the two storeys. My stomach was doing a series of delicate handsprings and my feet seemed to be moving independently of my knees because I didn’t seem to have any knees. A few yards away was a gentleman who went around sticking Task Force daggers into the inoffensive citizenry andI was on my way to ask him questions which he might well consider impertinent from a stranger.
    Room 13 was on my right as I reached the top of the first flight. I knuckled the plain wooden panel gently. Then quite loudly. Mr. Ash Blond didn’t give a damn.
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