The burly Nick and I went around with the chief while he made sure his men were properly placed. I didn’t think much of them—a shabby, shifty-eyed crew without enthusiasm for the job ahead of them.
The sky became a faded gray. The chief, Nick, and I stopped in a plumber’s doorway diagonally across the street from our target.
Whisper’s joint was dark, the upper windows blank, blinds down over cigar store windows and door.
“I hate to start this without giving Whisper a chance,” Noonan said. “He’s not a bad kid. But there’s no use me trying to talk to him. He never did like me much.”
He looked at me. I said nothing.
“You wouldn’t want to make a stab at it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’ll try it.”
“That’s fine of you. I’ll certainly appreciate it if you will. You just see if you can talk him into coming along without any fuss. You know what to say—for his own good and all that, like it is.”
“Yeah,” I said and walked across to the cigar store, taking pains to let my hands be seen swinging empty at my sides.
Day was still a little way off. The street was the color of smoke. My feet made a lot of noise on the pavement.
I stopped in front of the door and knocked the glass with a knuckle, not heavily. The green blind down inside the door made a mirror of the glass. In it I saw two men moving up the other side of the street.
No sound came from inside. I knocked harder, then slid my hand down to rattle the knob.