A New Deal
I went out to hunt for MacSwain. Neither city directory nor telephone book told me anything. I did the pool rooms, cigar stores, speakeasies, looking around first, then asking cautious questions. That got me nothing. I walked the streets, looking for bowed legs. That got me nothing. I decided to go back to my hotel, grab a nap, and resume the hunting at night.
In a far corner of the lobby a man stopped hiding behind a newspaper and came out to meet me. He had bowed legs, a hog jaw, and was MacSwain.
I nodded carelessly at him and walked on toward the elevators. He followed me, mumbling:
“Hey, you got a minute?”
“Yeah, just about.” I stopped, pretending indifference.
“Let’s get out of sight,” he said nervously.
I took him up to my room. He straddled a chair and put a match in his mouth. I sat on the side of the bed and waited for him to say something. He chewed his match a while and began:
“I’m going to come clean with you, brother. I’m—”
“You mean you’re going to tell me you knew me when you braced me yesterday?” I asked. “And you’re going to tell me Bush hadn’t told you to bet on him? And you didn’t until afterwards? And you knew about his