Whisper’s Joint
Our ride ended under a line of trees in a dark street not far from the center of town. We got out of the car and walked down to the corner.
A burly man in a gray overcoat, with a gray hat pulled down over his eyes, came to meet us.
“Whisper’s hep,” the burly man told the chief. “He phoned Donohoe that he’s going to stay in his joint. If you think you can pull him out, try it, he says.”
Noonan chuckled, scratched an ear, and asked pleasantly:
“How many would you say was in there with him?”
“Fifty, anyhow.”
“Aw, now! There wouldn’t be that many, not at this time of morning.”