"That's what the two hundred bucks pays for."
I dropped some more fan mail into the basket and lit myself a fresh cigarette. "We gotta get out of town," he said. "Agnes is a nice girl.
You can't hold that stuff on her.
It's not so easy for a dame to get by these days."
"She's too big for you," I said. "She'll roll on you and smother you."
"That's kind of a dirty crack, brother," he said with something that was near enough to dignity to make me stare at him.
I said: "You're right. I've been meeting the wrong kind of people lately.
Let's cut out the gabble and get down to cases.
What have you got for the money?"
"Would you pay for it?"
"If it does what?"
"If it helps you find Rusty Regan."
"I'm not looking for Rusty Regan."
"Says you.
Want to hear it or not?"
"Go ahead and chirp.
I'll pay for anything I use.
Two C notes buys a lot of information in my circle."
"Eddie Mars had Regan bumped off," he said calmly, and leaned back as if he had just been made a vice-president.
I waved a hand in the direction of the door.
"I wouldn't even argue with you," I said. "I wouldn't waste the oxygen.
On your way, small size."
He leaned across the desk, white lines at the corners of his mouth. He snubbed his cigarette out carefully, over and over again, without looking at it.
From behind a communicating door came the sound of a typewriter clacking monotonously to the bell, to the shift, line after line.
"I'm not kidding," he said.
"Beat it.
Don't bother me. I have work to do."
"No you don't," he said sharply. "I ain't that easy. I came here to speak my piece and I'm speaking it.
I knew Rusty myself.
Not well, well enough to say
'How's a boy?' and he'd answer me or he wouldn't, according to how he felt.
A nice guy though.
I always liked him.
He was sweet on a singer named Mona Grant.
Then she changed her name to Mars.
Rusty got sore and married a rich dame that hung around the joints like she couldn't sleep well at home.
You know all about her, tall, dark, enough looks for a Derby winner, but the type would put a lot of pressure on a guy.
High-strung.
Rusty wouldn't get along with her. But Jesus, he'd get along with her old man's dough, wouldn't he?
That's what you think.
This Regan was a cockeyed sort of buzzard.
He had long-range eyes. He was looking over into the next valley all the time. He wasn't scarcely around where he was.
I don't think he gave a damn about dough.
And coming from me, brother, that's a compliment."
The little man wasn't so dumb after all.
A three for a quarter grifter wouldn't even think such thoughts, much less know how to express them.
I said: "So he ran away."
"He started to run away, maybe.
With this girl Mona.
She wasn't living with Eddie Mars, didn't like his rackets. Especially the side lines, like blackmail, bent cars, hideouts for hot boys from the east, and so on.