as he talked to somebody there in the office and when he came back to me he was more sharp than before.
'Cookie Harkin lives in the Mapuah Hotel. That's M-A-P-UA-H. Know where it is?'
'I'll find it,' I told him. 'And thanks.'
He thanked me by slamming the phone back.
I looked up the Mapuah Hotel in the directory and found it listed in a crummy neighborhood off Eighth Avenue in the upper Sixties. It was as bad as I expected, but just about the kind of a place a guy like Cookie would go for. The only rule it had was to pay the rent on time. There was a lobby with a couple of old leather chairs and a set of wicker furniture that didn't match. The clerk was a baldheaded guy who was shy a lower plate and he was bent over, the desk reading a magazine.
'Where'll I find Cookie Harkin?'
'309.' He didn't look up and made no attempt at announcing me.
The only concession to modernization the place made was the automatic elevator. Probably they couldn't get anybody to run a manual job anyway. I closed the door, pushed the third button in the row and stood there counting bricks until the car stopped.
Cookie had a good spot. His room took up the southwest corner facing the rear court where there was a reasonable amount of quiet and enough of a breeze that wasn't contaminated by the dust and exhaust gases on the street side.
I knocked twice, heard the bedsprings creak inside, then Cookie yelled, 'Yeah?'
'Mike, Cookie. Get out of the sack.'
'Okay, just a minute.'
The key rattled in the lock and Cookie stood there in the top half of his pajamas rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 'This is a hell of an hour to get up,' I said.
'I was up late.'
I looked at the second pillow on his bed that still had the fresh imprint of a head, then at the closed door that led off the room.
'Yeah, I'll bet. Can she hear anything in there?'
He came awake in a hurry. 'Nah. Whatcha got, Mike?'
'What would you like to have?'
'Plenty. Did you see the papers?' I said no. 'I'm not so dumb, Mike. The D.A.'s giving out a song and dance about that triple kill in Islip. Me, I know what happened. The rags gotta clam up because no names are mentioned, but you let me spill it and I'll clean up.'
I sat down and pulled out a butt. 'I'll swap,' I said.
'Now wait a sec, Mike...'
'There aren't any rough boys this time. Do something for me and you'll get the story. Right from the beginning.'
'You got a deal.'
So I told him straight without leaving anything out and he was on the phone before I was finished talking. Dollar bills were drooling out of his eyes and the thing was big enough to get a direct line to Harry Bailen himself. I told him not to play the cops down and when he passed it down with the hint that more was yet to come if it was played right, the big shot agreed and his voice crackled excitedly until he hung up.
Cookie came back rubbing his hands and grinning at me. 'Just ask me, Mike. I'll see that you get it.'
I dragged in on the smoke. 'Go back a ways, Cookie. Remember when Charlie Fallon died?'
'Sure. He kicked off in a movie house on Broadway, didn't he? Had a heart attack.'
'That's right.'
'He practically lived in them movies. Couldn't tell if he was in the classiest playhouse or the lousiest theater if you wanted to go looking for him.'
I nodded that I knew about it and went on, 'At the time he was either married or living with a woman. Which was it?'
'Umm...' he tugged at one ear and perched on the edge of the bed. 'Nope, he wasn't married. Guess he was shacking with somebody.'
'Who?'
'Hell, how'd I know? That was years ago. The guy was woman-happy.'
'This one must have been special if he was living with her.' His eyes grew shrewd. 'You want her?'
'Yep.'
'When?'
'As soon as you can.'
'I dunno, Mike. Maybe she ain't around no more.'
'She'll be around. That kind never leaves the city.'
Cookie made a face like a weasel and started to grin a little bit. 'I'll give it a spin. Supposing I gotta lay out cash?'
