“Where’ll I find Reno? Hank O’Marra said he wanted to see me.”

“He does that. Know where Kid McLeod’s place is at?”

“No.”

“It’s on Martin Street above King, corner the alley. Ask for the Kid. Go back that-away three blocks, and then down. You can’t miss it.”

I said I’d try not to, and left him crouching behind his hedge, watching my client’s place, waiting, I guessed, for a shot at Pete the Finn, Whisper, or any of Reno’s other unfriends who might happen to call on old Elihu.

Following directions, I came to a soft drink and rummy establishment with red and yellow paint all over it. Inside I asked for Kid McLeod. I was taken into a back room, where a fat man with a dirty collar, a lot of gold teeth, and only one ear, admitted he was McLeod.

“Reno sent for me,” I said. “Where’ll I find him?”