The Whosis Kid lived in a joint from which some of the McAllister Street apartments could be watched. He visited the apartment building furtively. Leaving, he was shot at, from a car that must have been waiting somewhere in the vicinity. Had the Frenchman’s companion in the Cadillac—or his companions, if more than one—been the occupant of the apartment the Kid had visited? Had they expected him to visit it? Had they tricked him into visiting it, planning to shoot him down as he was leaving? Or were they watching the front while the Kid watched the rear? If so, had either known that the other was watching? And who lived there?
I couldn’t answer any of these riddles. All I knew was that the Frenchman and his companions didn’t seem to like the Whosis Kid.
Even the sort of meal I put away doesn’t take forever to eat. When I finished it, I went out to the lobby again.
Passing the switchboard, one of the girls—the one whose red hair looks as if it had been poured into its waves and hardened—gave me a nod.
I stopped to see what she wanted.
“Your friend just had a call,” she told me.
“You get it?”
“Yes. A man is waiting for him at Kearny and Broadway. Told him to hurry.”
“How long ago?”
“None. They’re just through talking.”
“Any names?”
“No.”