Chapter Twelve
Ready left the girl, Marcy, in his room with the money. He knew she wouldn’t dare take any. Hell, she wouldn’t even touch it. But she’d stay around as long as there was the slightest chance she might end up getting some of it.
Ready caught a horsecar to Fourteenth Street, then walked up to Tenth Avenue. He found the building he was looking for and entered a shop in it. From what he could see, all that was sold there was junk.
“Can I help you?” asked a man behind the counter. He was in his fifties, with gray hair and a barrel chest. He looked at Ready from over a pair of wire-framed glasses.
“Yeah,” Ready said, “maybe you can. I’m looking for Albert Bolan.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know him?”
“Maybe. What are you looking for him for?”
“Friend of mine is a friend of his,” Ready said. “He told me to look him up.”
“What for?” the man asked. “Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
Ready took out a hundred-dollar bill and said, “The kind that pays.”
“You’re not the law, are you?”
“Do you know any lawmen who carry around this kind of money, friend?”
The man thought for a moment, then came to a decision.
“Flip that sign on the door around so it says, CLOSED,” he instructed.
Ready walked to the door and turned the sign around. Then he asked, “Are you Bolan?”
“I’m Bolan. Come on in the back room. And bring your friend with the zeros with you.”
A little later on, Oakley Ready left the junk shop, turning the sign around so that it read, OPEN, again. He walked down Fourteenth Street to a point where he could catch a horsecar again.
He was a couple of hundred dollars lighter than he was when he went in, but by this time tomorrow he should have two professional guns good enough to take care of Dover.
If he didn’t, his new friend Albert Bolan was going to owe him a refund—and an explanation.
Chapter Thirteen
Rosewood dropped Decker off in front of his hotel.
“Thanks for the tour, Billy.”
“Will you want me later tonight?”
“I don’t think—wait a minute.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you what,” Decker said after a moment. “Will you be available at two a.m.?”
“Sure, if you want.”
“You know that hospital I told you I was at?”
“Sure, on Second Avenue.”
“Go there at two and pick up a nurse.”
“Sure,” Billy said, grinning, “just any nurse?”
“Quiet, and listen. I’ll describe her.” Decker described Linda Hamilton as well as he could, and Rosewood laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“The only time I ever heard a man describe a woman that well, he was in love with her.”
“Don’t be a dope. I only met her yesterday.”
“I know,” Rosewood said, still grinning.
“Stop grinning like a fool. After you’ve picked her up, take her to—what’s a decent restaurant that’s open that time of night?”
“I know one,” Rosewood said and gave Decker instructions how to get there.
“Good. Bring her there.”
“Want me to have someone pick you up and take you there?” Rosewood asked.
“Like who?”
“A friend.”
“An expensive friend?”
“You don’t pay him, you pay me—after.”
“I appreciate that, Billy.”
“I feel it’s my responsibility to see that you enjoy my city, Mr. Decker.”
“No
“All right, Decker. I’ll see you tonight.”
Decker waved and went into the hotel lobby. As he entered, he saw the clerk behind the desk nod to someone. There was a man sitting in the lobby, and he rose and approached Decker, who put his hand over the .32 in his pocket.
“Decker?” the man said.
“That’s right.”
“I’m from Bookman.”
“Yeah?”
“He sent me with a message.”
The man was tall and thin, well dressed and impeccably groomed. He didn’t appear to be armed, but that might have been due to the work of a good tailor.
“All right,” Decker said, “let’s go to my room.”
They went up to the second floor, to the door of Decker’s room.
“After you,” Decker said, and the man entered ahead of him.
Decker came in behind him and took the .32 from his pocket. He pressed the barrel against the man’s back and closed the door behind them.
“What’s this?” the man asked.
“I’m just being careful,” Decker said. “Put your hands up.”
The man obeyed, and Decker searched him. He found a .38-caliber Colt under his arm, and nothing else. He returned the .32 to his pocket and held the man’s .38.
“OK, sit on the bed.”
The man did so.
“What’s your message?”
“Bookman thought you might need some help.”
“Why is that?”
He did some checking on the man you’re looking for.”
“And what he found out made him think I needed a bodyguard?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, you go back and tell him to do just what we agreed that he’d do. I don’t need a baby sitter.”
The man stood up and straightened his coat.
“My gun, please?”
“What’s your name?”
“Largo,” the man said, “Jim Largo.”
