CHAPTER 53

Butler and Luke Short had a long breakfast away from the White Elephant. They didn’t want any more surprises waiting outside the front door.

“Let’s have the cab drop us off a few blocks away and walk the rest,” Butler suggested.

“I’m with you,” Short said. “Check out the area on the way.”

“Right.”

Short sat back in his chair, took his cup with him, and regarded Butler across the rim.

“There’s a couple of big gamblers comin’ in next week,” he said. “Johnny Speck, Ed Bradley, and Dick Clark will still be in town. I can get up a big game.”

“Al Newman?”

“No,” Short said. “No matter how this comes out, not Al Newman.”

“Well,” Butler said, “however this turns out, I think I’ll be back on the trail next week.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Short said. “I guess this hasn’t been the stopover you thought it would be. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Oh, I wasn’t taking the blame,” Short said. “I’m just sorry it all happened.”

“So am I.”

“But at least I can tell Bat and Wyatt when I see them,” Short went on, “that we have a good friend in common.”

“Yep,” Butler replied, “you can certainly say that.”

They approached the Anchor at eleven fifty-five. They hadn’t seen any sign that they were being watched or followed once the cab had dropped them off.

“This area looks dead now,” Butler said.

“Sailors are back on their ships, dockworkers are at work,” Short said.

They approached the front door.

“What if they’re not open?” Butler asked.

“We’ll pound on the door,” Short said.

But the place was open, and they went right inside. As they crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind them.

The bartender was behind the bar, bald head gleaming. Around the room about half a dozen men stood, armed with boat hooks, clubs, and a couple of guns. The bartender was bouncing a huge club in and out of the palm of his hand.

“Well,” Short said, looking around, “I guess we know where Al Newman stands.”

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