clamped to the front fenders. The window by the driver’s seat was down. I went back to the Marmon and got a flash, reached in and twisted the license holder of the Buick around, put the light on it quickly, then off again.
It was registered to Louis N. Harger.
I got rid of the flash and went into the drugstore. There was a liquor display at one side, and the clerk in the blue smock sold me a pint of Canadian Club, which I took over to the counter and opened. There were ten seats at the counter, but I sat down on the one next to the hatless man. He began to look me over, in the mirror, very carefully.
I got a cup of black coffee two-thirds full and added plenty of the rye. I drank it down and waited for a minute, to let it warm me up. Then I looked the hatless man over.
He was about twenty-eight, a little thin on top, had a healthy red face, fairly honest eyes, dirty hands and looked as if he wasn’t making much money. He wore a gray whipcord jacket with metal buttons on it, pants that didn’t match.
I said carelessly, in a low voice: “Your bus outside?”
He sat very still. His mouth got small and tight and he had trouble pulling his eyes away from mine, in the mirror.
“My brother’s,” he said, after a moment.
I said: “Care for a drink? . . . Your brother is an old friend of mine.”
He nodded slowly, gulped, moved his hand slowly, but finally got the bottle and curdled his coffee with it. He drank the whole thing down. Then I watched him dig up a crumpled pack of cigarettes, spear his mouth with one, strike a match on the counter, after missing twice on his thumbnail, and inhale with a lot of very poor nonchalance that he knew wasn’t going over.
I leaned close to him and said evenly: “This doesn’t
have
to be trouble.”
He said: “Yeah . . . Wh-what’s the beef?”
The clerk sidled towards us. I asked for more coffee. When I got it I stared at the clerk until he went and stood in front of the display window with his back to me. I laced my second cup of coffee and drank some of it. I looked at the clerk’s back and said: “The guy the car belongs to doesn’t have a brother.”
He held himself tightly, but turned towards me. “You think it’s a hot car?”
“You don’t think it’s a hot car?”
I said: “No. I just want the story.”
“You a dick?”
“Uh-huh—but it isn’t a shakedown, if that’s what worries you.”
He drew hard on his cigarette and moved his spoon around in his empty cup.
“I can lose my job over this,” he said slowly. “But I needed a hundred bucks. I’m a hack driver.”
“I guessed that,” I said.
He looked surprised, turned his head and stared at me. “Have another drink and let’s get on with it,” I said. “Car thieves don’t park them on the main drag and then sit around in drugstores.”
The clerk came back from the window and hovered near us, busying himself with rubbing a rag on the coffee urn. A heavy silence fell. The clerk put the rag down, went along to the back of the store, behind the partition, and began to whistle aggressively.
The man beside me took some more of the whiskey and drank it, nodding his head wisely at me. “Listen—I brought a fare out and was supposed to wait for him. A guy and a jane come up alongside me in the Buick and the guy offers me a hundred bucks to let him wear my cap and drive my hack into town. I’m to hang around here an hour, then take his heap to the Hotel Carillon on Towne Boulevard. My cab will be there for me. He gives me the hundred bucks.”
“What was his story?” I asked.
“He said they’d been to a gambling joint and had some luck for a change. They’re afraid of holdups on the way in. They figure there’s always spotters watchin’ the play.”
I took one of his cigarettes and straightened it out in my fingers. “It’s a story I can’t hurt much,” I said. “Could I see your cards?”
He gave them to me. His name was Tom Sneyd and he was a driver for the Green
It was registered to Louis N. Harger.
I got rid of the flash and went into the drugstore. There was a liquor display at one side, and the clerk in the blue smock sold me a pint of Canadian Club, which I took over to the counter and opened. There were ten seats at the counter, but I sat down on the one next to the hatless man. He began to look me over, in the mirror, very carefully.
I got a cup of black coffee two-thirds full and added plenty of the rye. I drank it down and waited for a minute, to let it warm me up. Then I looked the hatless man over.
He was about twenty-eight, a little thin on top, had a healthy red face, fairly honest eyes, dirty hands and looked as if he wasn’t making much money. He wore a gray whipcord jacket with metal buttons on it, pants that didn’t match.
I said carelessly, in a low voice: “Your bus outside?”
He sat very still. His mouth got small and tight and he had trouble pulling his eyes away from mine, in the mirror.
“My brother’s,” he said, after a moment.
I said: “Care for a drink? . . . Your brother is an old friend of mine.”
He nodded slowly, gulped, moved his hand slowly, but finally got the bottle and curdled his coffee with it. He drank the whole thing down. Then I watched him dig up a crumpled pack of cigarettes, spear his mouth with one, strike a match on the counter, after missing twice on his thumbnail, and inhale with a lot of very poor nonchalance that he knew wasn’t going over.
I leaned close to him and said evenly: “This doesn’t
have
to be trouble.”
He said: “Yeah . . . Wh-what’s the beef?”
The clerk sidled towards us. I asked for more coffee. When I got it I stared at the clerk until he went and stood in front of the display window with his back to me. I laced my second cup of coffee and drank some of it. I looked at the clerk’s back and said: “The guy the car belongs to doesn’t have a brother.”
He held himself tightly, but turned towards me. “You think it’s a hot car?”
“You don’t think it’s a hot car?”
I said: “No. I just want the story.”
“You a dick?”
“Uh-huh—but it isn’t a shakedown, if that’s what worries you.”
He drew hard on his cigarette and moved his spoon around in his empty cup.
“I can lose my job over this,” he said slowly. “But I needed a hundred bucks. I’m a hack driver.”
“I guessed that,” I said.
He looked surprised, turned his head and stared at me. “Have another drink and let’s get on with it,” I said. “Car thieves don’t park them on the main drag and then sit around in drugstores.”
The clerk came back from the window and hovered near us, busying himself with rubbing a rag on the coffee urn. A heavy silence fell. The clerk put the rag down, went along to the back of the store, behind the partition, and began to whistle aggressively.
The man beside me took some more of the whiskey and drank it, nodding his head wisely at me. “Listen—I brought a fare out and was supposed to wait for him. A guy and a jane come up alongside me in the Buick and the guy offers me a hundred bucks to let him wear my cap and drive my hack into town. I’m to hang around here an hour, then take his heap to the Hotel Carillon on Towne Boulevard. My cab will be there for me. He gives me the hundred bucks.”
“What was his story?” I asked.
“He said they’d been to a gambling joint and had some luck for a change. They’re afraid of holdups on the way in. They figure there’s always spotters watchin’ the play.”
I took one of his cigarettes and straightened it out in my fingers. “It’s a story I can’t hurt much,” I said. “Could I see your cards?”
He gave them to me. His name was Tom Sneyd and he was a driver for the Green
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