The Hunt

“It’s Frankie Kee, Mr. Costello. You remember me?” “Yeah, I remember you. You still drivin’ that Rolls?”

“I switched to a twelve-cylinder Packard.”

“So you’re that Frankie Kee.”

“One and the same.”

“I heard you was outa the country.”

“I’m back.”

“You was where, Germany?”

Costello obviously kept in touch. He was a man who never forgot information, no matter how unimportant it might seem. It went into the old memory bank and stayed there.

“That’s right.”

“What were you doin’ over there?”

“Hating Hitler.”

Costello broke out laughing, then yelped. “Jesus, Tony, you almost cut my throat. . well I can’t help it, the guy made me laugh. . . you, Frankie Kee, you almost got my throat cut for me.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were getting a shave.”

“Okay, you’re back. What’s your problem?”

“Mr. C., my problem is I’m lookin’ for a guy and I’ve got almost nothing to go on.”

“This guy one of ours?”

“No. He’s a European. Nothing to do with the business.”

“So why you come to me?” There was a touch of irritation in his husky voice.

“Because I need a name. Somebody who can keep his mouth shut and can give me some pointers, like how to find somebody who doesn’t want to be found.”

“This is personal, am I right?”

“Very personal.”

“I heard you never packed a heater.”

“That’s true.”

“This ain’t any of my business, but this guy you’re lookin’ to hire, does he have to do anything else? I mean, if he turns this noogle up, do you want him to do anything else for you?”

“I want to turn him up, Mr. C. All I want to know is how to go about it.”

“Must be real personal,” Costello said with a chuckle.

“You hit it on the button.”

There was a pause, a long pause. Vaguely in the background he could hear the sound of a razor being drawn across a whiskered face, the sound of an emery board on fingernails and, way in the background, H. V. Kaltenborn was delivering his daily news broadcast on the radio. Finally Costello spoke again.

“It could cost you a bundle, the guy I got in mind.”

“The cost doesn’t figure in.”

“Jesus, you really do want this guy bad. You got a pencil handy?”

“Right.”

“Eddie Tangier. Gramercy 5-6608. It’s a candy store on the East Side. They’ll take a message. You can use my name.”

“Thanks. That’s one I owe you.”

“You’re okay, Frankie Kee, I’ll remember that. Maybe someday you hear from me.”

“Grazie. Addio.”

“Addio.”

At four o’clock a man entered the saloon. He stood in the doorway for a moment, a hazy shape, haloed by sharp sunlight from outside. He was short and square, a boxy little man who kept his hands in his overcoat pockets as he strolled slowly around the room, checking the booths. He went to the back, opened the men’s room door with one hand, leaned over and looked under the booth doors. He did the same with the ladies’ room, then went back to the front. A moment later a second man, a slender man nearly six feet tall dressed in black, entered followed by two others who stood on either side of the entrance like palace guards.

Keegan sat in his rear booth reading the afternoon paper. He watched the little drama at the door with casual interest, then turned back to the tabloid.

The tall man in black walked cautiously toward the booth. He did everything cautiously. 1-le walked cautiously, he looked around cautiously, he talked cautiously and he sat down as if he expected the seat to be cushioned with nails. He was a dapper man with a pencil mustache and he wore a vested suit under a black chesterfield coat. He walked down the length of the bar, stopped at its corner and stared across the room at Keegan before he finally approached the booth.

“Frankie Kee?”