Outside, I turned down toward Kearny Street, strolling along, thinking that Larrouy’s joint had been full of crooks this one night, and that there seemed to be more than a sprinkling of prominent visitors in our midst. A shadow in a doorway interrupted my brain-work.
The shadow said, “ Ps‑s‑s‑s! Ps‑s‑s‑s! ”
Stopping, I examined the shadow until I saw it was Beno, a hophead newsie who had given me a tip now and then in the past—some good, some phony.
“I’m sleepy,” I growled as I joined Beno and his arm-load of newspapers in the doorway, “and I’ve heard the story about the Mormon who stuttered, so if that’s what’s on your mind, say so, and I’ll keep going.”
“I don’t know nothin’ about no Mormons,” he protested, “but I know somethin’ else.”
“Well?”
“ ’S all right for you to say ‘Well,’ but what I want to know is, what am I gonna get out of it?”
“Flop in the nice doorway and go shuteye,” I advised him, moving toward the street again. “You’ll be all right when you wake up.”
“Hey! Listen, I got somethin’ for you. Hones’ to Gawd!”
“Well?”
“Listen!” He came close, whispering. “There’s a caper rigged for the Seaman’s National. I don’t know what’s the racket, but it’s real. Hones’ to Gawd! I ain’t stringin’ you. I can’t give you no monickers. You know I would if I knowed ’em. Hones’ to Gawd! Gimme ten bucks. It’s worth that to you, ain’t it? This is straight dope—hones’ to Gawd!”