I found the building I wanted, and learned that Art Green—Impressario was on three. From the amount of stairs I climbed I was beginning to wonder whether that should have read thirty three. But I made it finally, and found myself standing before a peeled door with A—T G – – – N barely discernible in dirty white capitals. It didn’t say anything about impressario, and maybe the sign-writer ran out of paint about there.
Nobody took any notice of the first knock, so I gave the door a second application and this time there was movement and grumbling from inside.
“Go away.”
That was no way for an impressario to impress prospective clients.
“Open it up,” I called through the door.
Then I gave it a couple of kicks to show I wanted in.
“All right, all right, you don’t have to knock the place down.”
A bolt scraped and I got my first look at Mr. Green. I don’t know a lot about show business, but from where I stood he didn’t look like any Ziegfeld. He was a short skinny guy, with a near-yellow face and blue stubble to make it more colorful. His top teeth were almost as yellow as his face. I couldn’t tell about the lower half because he hadn’t put them in yet.
“What’s the idea?” he snapped.
“Mr. Green?” I enquired politely.
“That’s what it says,” he replied, not so politely. “Whaddya mean, dragging a guy outa bed middla da night?”
I looked through the landing window at the strong sunlight. Maybe Mr. Green normally wore eyeglasses too.
“Want to talk to you. Do I come in, or would you sooner I shouted my business all over the street?”
If I knew anything about people who lived that end of Conquest, that kind of publicity was the last thing Mr. Green would want. His eyes took on a furtive look and he peeked quickly outside to make sure there was no one around.
“Like that, huh?” he said hopefully. “Sure, sure. Come in if you want. Why should you care if I never get any sleep.”
I stepped inside, and the close atmosphere made my nostrils react sharply.
“What do you do for air?”
He shrugged.
“Listen, me I like fresh air. I believe in it. But to have air, you gotta have open windows. And believe me, anybody around here leaves a window open at night, he’s crazy. Why, some of those guys wouldn’t leave the strings in your shoes.”
To show what a fresh-air fiend he was, he yanked open a big window and I felt safe in taking a breath. We were in a room about fourteen by twelve, and this seemed to be the extent of the Green holdings. In one corner stood a folding bed, and at the far end a drab curtain was pulled to one side, showing the catering arrangements.
Green stood in his undershirt, picking at his few teeth, and eyeing me curiously.
“So, you’re in,” he pointed out.
“Right. This is your lucky day, Art. Today, you make a profit.”
“Urn.”
He didn’t sound too excited about it. There had to be more, and somewhere in that more would be the catch the Art Greens of this world have learned to expect.
“You don’t seem very pleased,” I reproved.
“Pleased? What’s to be pleased?” he cackled. “You come bustin’ in here in the middla the night, talking about profits. Way I hear it, a guy has to make an investment before he gets around to a profit. Investments I don’t need today. What’s your pitch?”
“It seems there’s a girl, a girl I want to meet.”
“Ah.”
Now I was getting a reaction. Girls made sense, even at that hour of the morning. Girls have been around a long time, and all the time they’ve been around, there’s been an Art Green with some kind of corner on the market. Now the profit began to look more of a reality.
“What kind of girl would you have in mind?” he asked softly.
“Would it matter?”
I winked him one of my all-boys-together winks and he looked positively cheerful.
“Why no, as a matter of fact, it wouldn’t matter at all,” he assured me.
“Just state your preference, give me five minutes to make a phone call and you are in business.”
I smiled.
“Great. Matter of fact, I do have a special girl in mind. Her picture was in the paper. Shiralee O’Connor is the name.”
All happiness faded from his face. A new expression took it’s place, and to me it looked like fear.
“I don’t believe I know——” he began.
“Oh, but you do,” I interrupted. “I saw a mock-up of the story in the Globe Office. The original photograph was pinned to it. And your name was on that picture, Art.”
He took a step away from me, as though he’d been threatened.
“Photograph?” he muttered, “There must be some——”
“No mistake,” I cut in. “You’re my boy, Art. Tell me where to find her.”
“Listen, that poor kid’s had a tough time over that,” he pleaded. “All the time cops and reporters with nothing but questions.”
“I could see she was the shrinking violet type,” I sneered. “Just get that address up.”
Then he decided on a different approach, and grew aggressive.
“Say what’s it to you anyhow? You can’t go around interfering with private citizens. What gives you the right to come here pushing me around?”
“Nobody’s pushing you around, Art,” I corrected. “Though it could probably be arranged if you weren’t feeling cooperative.”
He backed further away till he felt the bed behind him. Then in one quick movement he dived under the pillow and came up with an old army colt.
“Yeah?” He was ten feet tall now. “Who’s gonna push who around? You just get out of here before I
