Noonan was waddling up and down the floor, cursing the half a dozen bulls who stood around wishing they were somewhere else.
“Here’s something I found roaming around,” I said, pushing MacSwain forward.
Noonan knocked the ex-detective down, kicked him, and told one of the coppers to take him away.
Somebody called Noonan on the phone. I slipped out without saying, “Good night,” and walked back to the hotel.
Off to the north some guns popped.
A group of three men passed me, shifty-eyed, walking pigeon-toed.
A little farther along, another man moved all the way over to the curb to give me plenty of room to pass. I didn’t know him and didn’t suppose he knew me.
A lone shot sounded not far away.
As I reached the hotel, a battered black touring car went down the street, hitting fifty at least, crammed to the curtains with men.
I grinned after it. Poisonville was beginning to boil out under the lid, and I felt so much like a native that even the memory of my very un-nice part in the boiling didn’t keep me from getting twelve solid end-to-end hours of sleep.