goats had disappeared from the lower slopes of Telegraph Hill and the bootleg winepresses had begun to outnumber the whiskey cookers.
Which reminded him that he needed a bottle if he was going to play in Fingers LeGrand’s poker game. It was tricky to try to get information about payoffs over the poker table in seemingly casual conversation; but Fingers knew him as a writer, not a detective, and he doubted that news of his hiring by the reform committee would be out on the street yet. He’d left McKenna’s office less than an hour before.
And the sooner he found Vic’s killer, the sooner he could return to the revision of
The Dain Curse
.
Hammett knocked, then rattled the heavy brass knob of the alley door. He had to stoop to press his nose against the heavy-gauge wire mesh that covered the window. It was gritty with street dirt.
A blocky silhouette moved toward Hammett, a latch was turned, and the window opened inward. A garlicked voice shoved words at him through the mesh. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Fingers does.’
‘Fingers who?’
‘For Chrissake, knock-knock.’
The door scraped open. The man’s gray sweatshirt stank of stale sweat and was stretched taut over a broad hard mound of gut. He led the way to the speakeasy, a square concrete cell, thewalls dampstained and unadorned with either picture or calendar, the ceiling the rough pine joists of the subfloor above. A single light globe hung from an electric flex stapled to one of the rafters.
‘Nice little place you’ve got here,’ said Hammett politely.
‘Yeah, Palm Court at the Palace.’ He went around behind a two-by-twelve of unplaned wood laid across two upended wooden beer kegs. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Rye?’
‘Seven-year-old Canadian.’
Hammett leaned an elbow on the plank and looked around. There were a few straight-back chairs and two kitchen tables with chipped white enamel tops. One was empty, the other held a bottle and three glasses and six elbows.
The Italians who belonged to the elbows wore their overcoats buttoned and their fedoras precisely centered on their dark heads. None of them was speaking. The light laid down their shadows as thick as tar across the floor and up the walls.
‘Flip a lip over that,’ beamed the barkeep. He had a crooked nose and the eyes of a spaniel.
Hammett laid back the shot. His eyes popped wide open. ‘What’s a pint of this run?’
‘For you? Three fifty.’
‘And for everybody else?’
‘Three fifty. Listen, that stuff goes out of here at fifty-six bucks a case. My cousin, see, runs this fishing boat for Dom Pronzini, and part of his cut he takes in—’
‘Giusepp.’ One of the men with his elbows on the table swung the word at the barkeep like a sock full of sand. To Hammett, he said, ‘Now you have your bottle, now you get on your way dam’ quick.’
Hammett laid a five on the stick. The bartender replaced it with a pint. Hammett dropped the bottle into his overcoat pocket, picked up his buck change, and asked how to get to the game.
‘I’ll show you the way.’
Giuseppe led him through a small concrete area past a couple of battered garbage pails to steep exterior stairs. A dozen feet below, the yellowing grass of the hillside fell away to Sansome and Vallejo. Refuse, empty tins, and broken bottles lined the foot of the wall.
‘Top flat. Don’t bother the girls in the lower, y’know?’
Something in his voice made Hammett ask, ‘Blisters?’
‘Now, nothing like that. Dead swell dames. Ya want some of that I can maybe arrange it, but no just knockin’ on the door lemme in, see?’
‘Sure.’
One of the dead swell dames was outside her open back door. Her body, silhouetted through her filmy negligee, was full and lush and Mediterranean.
‘Blisters,’ she said scornfully to Hammett as she ground out a cigarette beneath the heel of her pastel French mule. ‘We’re no coffee-and hustlers, big boy.’
She swayed against him, turning so her breasts were
Which reminded him that he needed a bottle if he was going to play in Fingers LeGrand’s poker game. It was tricky to try to get information about payoffs over the poker table in seemingly casual conversation; but Fingers knew him as a writer, not a detective, and he doubted that news of his hiring by the reform committee would be out on the street yet. He’d left McKenna’s office less than an hour before.
And the sooner he found Vic’s killer, the sooner he could return to the revision of
The Dain Curse
.
Hammett knocked, then rattled the heavy brass knob of the alley door. He had to stoop to press his nose against the heavy-gauge wire mesh that covered the window. It was gritty with street dirt.
A blocky silhouette moved toward Hammett, a latch was turned, and the window opened inward. A garlicked voice shoved words at him through the mesh. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘Fingers does.’
‘Fingers who?’
‘For Chrissake, knock-knock.’
The door scraped open. The man’s gray sweatshirt stank of stale sweat and was stretched taut over a broad hard mound of gut. He led the way to the speakeasy, a square concrete cell, thewalls dampstained and unadorned with either picture or calendar, the ceiling the rough pine joists of the subfloor above. A single light globe hung from an electric flex stapled to one of the rafters.
‘Nice little place you’ve got here,’ said Hammett politely.
‘Yeah, Palm Court at the Palace.’ He went around behind a two-by-twelve of unplaned wood laid across two upended wooden beer kegs. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Rye?’
‘Seven-year-old Canadian.’
Hammett leaned an elbow on the plank and looked around. There were a few straight-back chairs and two kitchen tables with chipped white enamel tops. One was empty, the other held a bottle and three glasses and six elbows.
The Italians who belonged to the elbows wore their overcoats buttoned and their fedoras precisely centered on their dark heads. None of them was speaking. The light laid down their shadows as thick as tar across the floor and up the walls.
‘Flip a lip over that,’ beamed the barkeep. He had a crooked nose and the eyes of a spaniel.
Hammett laid back the shot. His eyes popped wide open. ‘What’s a pint of this run?’
‘For you? Three fifty.’
‘And for everybody else?’
‘Three fifty. Listen, that stuff goes out of here at fifty-six bucks a case. My cousin, see, runs this fishing boat for Dom Pronzini, and part of his cut he takes in—’
‘Giusepp.’ One of the men with his elbows on the table swung the word at the barkeep like a sock full of sand. To Hammett, he said, ‘Now you have your bottle, now you get on your way dam’ quick.’
Hammett laid a five on the stick. The bartender replaced it with a pint. Hammett dropped the bottle into his overcoat pocket, picked up his buck change, and asked how to get to the game.
‘I’ll show you the way.’
Giuseppe led him through a small concrete area past a couple of battered garbage pails to steep exterior stairs. A dozen feet below, the yellowing grass of the hillside fell away to Sansome and Vallejo. Refuse, empty tins, and broken bottles lined the foot of the wall.
‘Top flat. Don’t bother the girls in the lower, y’know?’
Something in his voice made Hammett ask, ‘Blisters?’
‘Now, nothing like that. Dead swell dames. Ya want some of that I can maybe arrange it, but no just knockin’ on the door lemme in, see?’
‘Sure.’
One of the dead swell dames was outside her open back door. Her body, silhouetted through her filmy negligee, was full and lush and Mediterranean.
‘Blisters,’ she said scornfully to Hammett as she ground out a cigarette beneath the heel of her pastel French mule. ‘We’re no coffee-and hustlers, big boy.’
She swayed against him, turning so her breasts were
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