Part 19 (1/2)
”Drink?”
”Oh, I guess he boozes a little; but he's hard-headed and knows how to handle the stuff.”
”Women?--Roast beef, boiled potatoes and musty ale for two.”
”Actresses.--Say, make mine a beer.--A gay buck in New York, I understand. Used to chase around after the Challoner woman who married Bennington.”
”Nothing here in town?”
”Haven't paid any attention to him. I guess he's straight enough these days.”
”Tip Pete off to-day. The police will make a raid Sat.u.r.day night. The ministers have been shouting again, and two or three losers have whined.”
”All right. But what's all this about Warrington?” asked Martin, whose curiosity was aroused.
”I'll tell you later.” The waiter returned with the platters of food, and McQuade ate without further comment or question.
Martin ate his meat in silence also, but he was busy wondering.
Warrington? What had interested the boss in that swell? Humph!
These men ate quickly and digested slowly. McQuade took out two fat black cigars and pa.s.sed one to Martin, who tore off the end with his teeth.
”I want to find out all there is to know about Warrington. I can't explain why just now; too many around.”
”Set Bolles after him. Bolles used to be with a private detective bureau. If there's anything to learn, he'll learn it. There he is now.
Hey, waiter, ask that gentleman looking for a vacant table to come over. h.e.l.lo, Bolles!”
”How do you do, Mr. Martin. Hot day, Mr. McQuade.”
”Sit down,” said McQuade, with a nod of invitation toward the remaining vacant chair. ”Cigar or a drink?”
”Bring me a little whisky--no, make it an old-fas.h.i.+oned c.o.c.ktail.
That'll be about right.”
”Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if you're willing to undertake it.”
”I've got some time on my hands just now,” replied Bolles. ”Contract work?”
”After a fas.h.i.+on,” said McQuade grimly. ”Eat your dinner and we'll go up stairs to my office. What I have to say can't be said here.”
”All right, Mr. McQuade. If it's dagos, I'll have plenty in hand in November.”
”I shall want you to go to New York,” said McQuade.
”New York or San Francisco, so long as some one foots the bills.”
”I'll foot 'em,” agreed McQuade. ”Hustle your dinner. We'll wait for you at the bar.”
Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took him to New York meant money, money and a good time. There were no more contracts till September, so the junket to New York wouldn't interfere with his regular work. He had sublet his Italians. He was free. A few minutes later he joined McQuade, and the trio went up stairs in a cloud of tobacco smoke. McQuade nodded to the typewriter, who rose and left the private office. The three men sat down, in what might be described as a one-two-three att.i.tude: domination, tacit acceptance of this domination, and servility.