along so well honestly up till now, I wasn’t going to spoil future relations over a minor point. “No, he wouldn’t,” I admitted.
“Then I can’t either,” he said. “Joe must not want her mixed in.”
“Fair enough,” I said agreeably. “I guess that covers things for now, Stub. You’ve been a big help. Where can I find you if I need you again?”
“If I’m not at home, just look for a purple jacket. When you find one, tell the guy your name. I’ll pass the word that you’re okay.”
He stepped out of the car and stood waiting on the sidewalk as I pulled away. I raised my hand in salute and he threw me a friendly good-by.
7
T HE tavern beside which I had been parked was on Eighth Street. I drove along Eighth three blocks to Vernon, turned right, went past the building where Stub Carlson lived and continued to the middle of the next block.
This block was a solid bank of small businesses on both sides of the street. On the west side there was a tavern on each corner, in between were a variety of places ranging from a barbershop to a small vegetable market, and in the exact center of the block was a brownstone entrance leading to the flats above the stores. The street number painted above this entrance was 620.
Parking my car in front of the entrance, I went in. At the end of a dim hall I could see stairs going upward, and near them, seated in a kitchen chair which was tilted back against the wall was a skinny man with his hat on. Even in the subdued light I recognized him as a detective out of Homicide named Hogan. Apparently he was the stakeout Stub Carlson had referred to.
Since there was no sign of a basement stairway in the hall at this end, I guessed it was situated under the other stairs.
As I moved past the detective, I said casually, “Hi, Hogan.”
“Whoa!” he said, coming out of a semicoma and his chair at the same time. “Where you think … Oh, it’s you, Manny.”
I said, “Like to take a look at the Purple Pelicans’ club room.”
“You on this case?” he asked.
When I nodded, he said doubtfully, “I don’t know, Manny. I’ve got no authority to let anybody down there.”
“Isn’t Homicide finished with it yet?”
“Oh, sure. I’m just staked out to nab any members who float in.”
“Then come off of it,” I said. “What the devil authority do you need?”
He scratched his chin. “None, I guess,” he decided. “Guess I’m just getting contrary like the old man. Come on.”
He led the way to a wooden door under the stairs, opened it and preceded me down a steep flight of steps. This led directly into a basement room which ran clear from the front of the building to the alley. It was about twenty feet wide and fifty feet long, with the only natural light and ventilation being two small eye-level windows at either end.
The walls were brick and the ceiling unfinished, but both were cleanly whitewashed. Bright green draw drapes hung at each of the four windows, apparently partly for decoration and partly to insure privacy. The cement floor was enameled battleship gray with a decorative border of red.
Under the stairway was a homemade bar painted and trimmed in the same combination as the floor. There were no bottles on it or behind it, but a metal washtub next to the bar contained an empty wine bottle and a number of empty beer cans.
The place was furnished with a radio-phonograph whose scarred cabinet indicated it was second or third hand, wooden benches all around the walls except where they were interrupted by radiators, a number of cheap card tables and about twenty folding chairs. Decorations consisted of a number of pictures hanging on the walls, most of which seemed to be nudes cut from magazines and calendars and placed in dime-store frames, and a white muslin banner over the bar on which had been painted, with rather surprising expertness, a purple pelican.
Except for a trash can and a stack of inexpensive ash trays on the bar, there wasn’t
“Then I can’t either,” he said. “Joe must not want her mixed in.”
“Fair enough,” I said agreeably. “I guess that covers things for now, Stub. You’ve been a big help. Where can I find you if I need you again?”
“If I’m not at home, just look for a purple jacket. When you find one, tell the guy your name. I’ll pass the word that you’re okay.”
He stepped out of the car and stood waiting on the sidewalk as I pulled away. I raised my hand in salute and he threw me a friendly good-by.
7
T HE tavern beside which I had been parked was on Eighth Street. I drove along Eighth three blocks to Vernon, turned right, went past the building where Stub Carlson lived and continued to the middle of the next block.
This block was a solid bank of small businesses on both sides of the street. On the west side there was a tavern on each corner, in between were a variety of places ranging from a barbershop to a small vegetable market, and in the exact center of the block was a brownstone entrance leading to the flats above the stores. The street number painted above this entrance was 620.
Parking my car in front of the entrance, I went in. At the end of a dim hall I could see stairs going upward, and near them, seated in a kitchen chair which was tilted back against the wall was a skinny man with his hat on. Even in the subdued light I recognized him as a detective out of Homicide named Hogan. Apparently he was the stakeout Stub Carlson had referred to.
Since there was no sign of a basement stairway in the hall at this end, I guessed it was situated under the other stairs.
As I moved past the detective, I said casually, “Hi, Hogan.”
“Whoa!” he said, coming out of a semicoma and his chair at the same time. “Where you think … Oh, it’s you, Manny.”
I said, “Like to take a look at the Purple Pelicans’ club room.”
“You on this case?” he asked.
When I nodded, he said doubtfully, “I don’t know, Manny. I’ve got no authority to let anybody down there.”
“Isn’t Homicide finished with it yet?”
“Oh, sure. I’m just staked out to nab any members who float in.”
“Then come off of it,” I said. “What the devil authority do you need?”
He scratched his chin. “None, I guess,” he decided. “Guess I’m just getting contrary like the old man. Come on.”
He led the way to a wooden door under the stairs, opened it and preceded me down a steep flight of steps. This led directly into a basement room which ran clear from the front of the building to the alley. It was about twenty feet wide and fifty feet long, with the only natural light and ventilation being two small eye-level windows at either end.
The walls were brick and the ceiling unfinished, but both were cleanly whitewashed. Bright green draw drapes hung at each of the four windows, apparently partly for decoration and partly to insure privacy. The cement floor was enameled battleship gray with a decorative border of red.
Under the stairway was a homemade bar painted and trimmed in the same combination as the floor. There were no bottles on it or behind it, but a metal washtub next to the bar contained an empty wine bottle and a number of empty beer cans.
The place was furnished with a radio-phonograph whose scarred cabinet indicated it was second or third hand, wooden benches all around the walls except where they were interrupted by radiators, a number of cheap card tables and about twenty folding chairs. Decorations consisted of a number of pictures hanging on the walls, most of which seemed to be nudes cut from magazines and calendars and placed in dime-store frames, and a white muslin banner over the bar on which had been painted, with rather surprising expertness, a purple pelican.
Except for a trash can and a stack of inexpensive ash trays on the bar, there wasn’t
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