Decker got into the cab, and Rosewood climbed up top and got started. Decker opened the envelope and read Duke’s telegram.
DECKER,
PAPER ON READY RECENT. KILLED THREE PEOPLE UNDER THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. READY IS REAL NAME. DON’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT HIM, PERSONALLY.
SAY HELLO TO BOOKMAN FOR ME. 483 BROOME STREET. ENJOY NEW YORK.
DUKE
Decker stuck his head out of the window and shouted up to Rosewood. “You know where Broome Street is?”
“Course!”
“Four-eight-three,” Decker called out.
“Right,” Rosewood said, waving a hand.
Chapter Nine
In a rooming house on Delancey Street, Oakley Ready sat naked on a bed counting his money. He still had about sixty-five hundred dollars left from the last bank he had robbed—just before Dover got onto his trail. He was out travel money and the money he’d been spreading behind him, trying to make sure Dover ended up dead.
He knew that the men he’d paid in Harrison City had failed to kill Dover because he’d read about the shooting in the St. Martin’s Hotel in the newspapers. The two men he’d hired to watch the train station were dead, too. Ready hadn’t known either town, or he’d have been able to hire better men.
He knew somebody in New York, though. He would get in touch with him today. It had taken him three days to find out where the guy was. Through this man he’d get some quality guns to go after Dover.
Once he had Dover taken care of, he’d be able to trade in this Delancey Street rooming house for a respectable hotel. He hadn’t seen much of New York since arriving, but he’d seen enough to know that it was his kind of town. There was plenty of money to be had, and plenty of places to spend it.
The girl on the other side of the bed rolled over and looked at Ready, then at the money. Her brown hair was tousled, and her lips slightly swollen.
“How much have you got left?” she asked.
“Enough,” he said, smiling at her.
He’d picked her up waiting tables in a restaurant. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was attractive and had a nice, solid body. He liked women with solid bodies.
The sheet fell away from her as she sat up, and he stared at her breasts. Then she reached for the money, and he grabbed her wrist and held it so tightly that bones started to grind together.
“Jesus—” she said, wincing in pain.
“We’ll get along fine, Marcy, as long as you remember one thing.”
“W-what?”
He let go of her wrist and said, “Don’t touch my money.”
“A-all r-right,” she said, rubbing her wrist.
He swept the money off the bed onto the floor, then got onto the bed with her.
“Here,” he said, taking her hand, “let me kiss it and make it better.”
Only it wasn’t her wrist that he started kissing.
Chapter Ten
The door of the second-floor offices said, WALTER BOOKMAN, nothing else. All the other doors had names and occupations on them, but not Bookman’s.
Decker knocked. He heard a chair squeak and footsteps approaching. Then the door opened.
The man in the doorway was big, over six feet, with a bushy black beard and an ill-fitting suit. Decker thought he’d probably have a lot of trouble finding a suit that would close Over his belly. He was chewing, as if Decker had interrupted his breakfast. There was some grease on his beard. He was a rough-looking man until you looked at his eyes. They were blue, and gentle looking. They were probably a disadvantage in his business.
“Yeah, what?” His voice fit his eyes rather than his appearance. Another disadvantage.
“Mr. Bookman?”
“That’s right.”
“I bring greetings from a friend.”
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Duke Ballard.”
“Duke,” Bookman said, nodding his head. He chewed the last of the food in his mouth and asked, “Who are you?”
“Decker.”
“Oh, yeah,” Bookman said, looking him up and down. “So you’re Decker. I heard of you.”
“I never heard of you.”
“That’s the first good news I’ve had all week,” Bookman said. “Come on in and shut the door behind you.”
Bookman backed away, and Decker entered, closing the door as instructed.
Bookman went around behind his desk and sat down. On the desk in front of him were a plate of bacon and eggs and another with biscuits and butter. There was also a pot of coffee. The room smelled as if he’d cooked it all himself.
“Want some?” Bookman asked.
“No, thanks.”
“I got a stove in the other room. It’s no trouble.”
“That’s OK,” Decker said. “I had breakfast.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
Bookman took a cup out of a bottom drawer and handed it to Decker. Decker blew some dust out of it before pouring himself a cup of coffee. Then he sat in a straight-backed chair in front of Bookman’s desk.
“What can I do for you, then?” Bookman asked. “You still a man hunter?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you looking for—oh, you don’t mind if I finish eating while we talk, do you?”
“No, go right ahead,” Decker said. He took the poster out of his pocket and unfolded it. “This is the man I’m looking for, Bookman.”
Bookman wiped his hand on his coat and took the poster. He dropped it on the table next to his plate.
“You know him?” Decker asked.
“I’ve heard of him, yeah.” Bookman picked up a biscuit and buttered it.
“I think he’s in New York.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Turn that over.”
Bookman turned the poster over and read the list of cities.
