“Do you know where I can find Coles?”
Largo considered the question a moment. He was trying to decide whether he could, or should, answer.
“I think I might be able to tell you where he takes a drink or two,” Largo finally said.
Afterward, Decker said, “And where will you be?”
Bookman’s man—for now—walked to the door. He said, “I’ll be around, Decker.”
“I’ll look for you.”
“Don’t,” Largo said. “You won’t find me.”
“Hey,” Decker said as Largo opened the door.
“What?”
“How do you know Coles drinks at this saloon?”
“Because,” Largo said, “I drink there myself on occasion.”
When Largo went in—and again when he came out—Tally’s men studied him carefully. Neither of them had ever seen him before.
Later one of them would tell Tally that the man was “tall and slender, moved, well, like a killer. Only he was nobody we’d ever seen before.”
“Sometimes those are the ones you should be most careful of,” was Tally’s reaction.
For now, Largo was seen as just another visitor to the hotel. Tally’s men went back to their normal procedure of surveillance.
Which meant they were half-asleep.
Decker got dressed and walked to the window of his hotel. It overlooked the street in front of the hotel, and Decker saw one of Tally’s men standing in the doorway of a building across the way.
Decker decided that when he located Armand Coles, he didn’t want the police around.
Not yet.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Decker kept a lookout on the front street, looking for Billy Rosewood. Finally he saw Rosewood’s cab pull up. He hoped Billy would stay there long enough for him to get down there.
Decker put the little .32 in his pocket and then picked up his sawed-off shotgun. It was about time his old friend went along with him. The next time somebody tried to take a piece out of him, that somebody was going to end up in pieces—after Decker questioned him. He tucked the shotgun inside his coat and left the room.
Decker went downstairs and found Rosewood leaning against the cab.
“I wondered if you died up there,” Rosewood said.
“What made you come back?”
“Cap’n,” Rosewood said, “you don’t strike me as the type to let a little bullet and razor keep you from doing what’s got to be done.”
“Good man,” Decker said. “There’s a policeman across the street.”
“Yep,” Rosewood said, “and one in the lobby.”
“I want to lose both of them.”
“Well, hop in and let’s get it done.”
Decker got into the cab, and Rosewood climbed up top and got it moving.
Looking out the back, Decker saw the two policeman scramble into a cab of their own. Soon it was clear that their driver was not as skillful as Rosewood or as knowledgable about the city’s side streets. In a matter of minutes, Rosewood had lost them.
“Where to now, Cap’n?” he shouted down.
“A reliable gunsmith,” Decker shouted back.
“Sit tight,” Rosewood said, “be there in a couple of minutes.”
Julian’s Gun Shop was a hole in the wall off the Hudson River. Rosewood stopped the cab and jumped down, opening the door for Decker.
“I suspect you want something special,” he said.
“You suspect right. Is this fella any good?”
“Are you kidding? Even the police come here for their special items. What do you want done?”
Decker took his shotgun out of the cab.
“That little gun of yours is fine, Billy, but I think I need my own weapon along from now on.”
“Gonna ruin the lines of that nice new jacket.”
“I thought you said he was good.”
Rosewood shrugged and said, “He’s good, but he ain’t no tailor.”
Rosewood led the way into the shop. Behind the counter was the tallest man Decker had ever seen. Painfully thin, he had black hair that came to a widow’s peak. Even though it was only 11:00 a.m., he had a five o’clock shadow.
“Lee,” Rosewood said, “this here’s a friend of mine. His name is Decker.”
“Decker,” Lee said, nodding his head. “Seems I’ve heard that name somewhere.”
Decker wondered where. Tally had done his job keeping Decker’s name out of the newspapers so that Ready would think Dover was still after him.
“I thought the name of this place was Julian’s?” Decker asked.
“It is,” Lee said. “I’m Lee Christopher. My brother’s name is Julian. He started this job, and I took it over when he died.”
“I see.”
“Decker,” Lee Christopher said, still chewing the name over. “Yeah, I’ve heard your name before. Well, it’ll come to me. What can I do for you?”
“I want to carry this,” Decker said, putting his shotgun on the counter, “without anyone knowing.”
“You could use a smaller gun,” Lee said.
“We been through that, Lee,” Rosewood said. “The man knows what he wants.”
“OK,” Christopher said, picking it up. “Let’s see what we got. You want to use that jacket?”
“Yes.”
“Let me have it.”
Decker took the coat off, moving gingerly.
“Looks like you’ve had some trouble already.”
“Some,” Decker said, handing over the coat.
“Well,” Christopher said, holding the coat up, “it would help if you were some heavier, but I can rig a holster on the inside of this jacket—not a full holster, mind you. Wait a minute. I know what I can do—here.” He looked at Decker and asked, “How much time have I got?”
“We need it yesterday,” Rosewood said.
“Are you paying?”
“Yes,” Decker said.
“Come back in an hour. I’ll be closed, but bang on the door.”
“Thanks,” Decker said, but the man didn’t hear, already lost in deep thought.
“Come on,” Rosewood said, “I know where we can get a drink while we’re waiting.”
Decker and Rosewood left the shop and walked to a nearby saloon. Decker took a table, and Rose-wood got two beers from the bar and joined him.
“Once you’ve got your jacket rigged, where are we headin’?” he asked Decker.
“The Bowery.”
