the bar resting his elbows on the polished top and reading the early edition track odds. There wasnât a soul in the place. The clientele is made up of guys who donât greet the new day until itâs half-overâmusicians, 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 didnât look up. He said, still not looking up, âHallo, Mr. Bogard. Whatâll it be?â
âYou can draw me off a beer,â I said, âand give yourself a slug of bourbon.â
Mike set up the drinks. Along with his saloon he didnât 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.
âAinât seen you around lately,â he offered at last.
I drank a third of my beer and carefully set the glass down, with both hands clasped round it. âMike,â I said, âI want you to tell me something. If you can.â
âSure, Mr. Bogardâif I can.â Suddenly, those Irish blue eyes were narrowly cautious.
âI am looking,â I said carefully, âfor a slim young man of about twenty-eight wearing ash-blond hair and a long knife scar down the right side of his face.â
There was an unhurried silence. Mikeâs face wore the kind of revealing look you see on a slab of marble.
I waited. Mike said, âI ainât seen no guy like that in here.â
âMike,â I said, âI know you always speak the truth to me. That is why I never have to say anything about you to Detective-lieutenant OâCassidy.â
Those unsmiling Irish eyes were as hard as a con manâs heart as he sells a hot line to a nice old lady living off the interest on ten grand and with five yearsâ mortgage still to pay.
âThere ainât nothing about me OâCassidy neednât know,â he said slowly feeling his way. âThis is a respectable saloon, as you well know, Mr. Bogard.â
âSure it is, Mike,â I said easily. âAnd 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 canât stand Detective OâCassidy and want some innocent meeting-place to talk over their business?â
Mike refilled the glasses without being asked. Then: âIâve given you many a tipoff for your newspaper, Mr. Bogardâbut I hear youâve quit and I donât hand out information anyway that ainât for printing.â
âThatâs fine,â I told him. âJust the same, I wouldnât like to have the johns take the joint apart for the sake of a quibble.â
Mike spun his little glass in his heavy fingers. Without a change of expression he said, âThereâs a friend of yours been staying here since last night. Room 13. A pleasant young gentleman.â
âIâll go up,â I said.
Silently, Mike handed me a pass-key. âHe said we werenât to disturb him. I donât want no troubleâ¦â
I gave my best smile an airing. âDo I look like trouble? This is a social call.â
But I wasnât 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 didnât 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 didnât give a damn.