I thought about Pribyl’s description of Mrs. Rooney as a matronly woman with four kids. “His wife was there?”

“Yeah, the luctiff.”

“Lucky?”

“You should see the dame! Good-lookin’ tomato with big dark eyes and a nice shape on her.”

“About how old?”

“Young. Twenties. It’d take the sting out of a ball and chain, I can tell you that.”

“Eddie…here’s a fin.”

“Heller, the beer’s enough!”

“The fin is for telling this same story to Sgt. Pribyl of the State’s Attorney’s coppers.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“But do it tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Okay. I got rounds to make, anyway.”

So did I.

At around eleven fifteen, bartender Alex Davidson was leaving the union hall; his back was turned, as he was locking the street-level door, and I put my nine-millimeter in it.

“Hi, Alex,” I said. “Don’t turn around, unless you prefer being gut-shot.”

“If it’s a stick-up, all I got’s a couple bucks. Take ’em and bug off!”

“No such luck. Leave that door unlocked. We’re gonna step back inside.”

He grunted and opened the door and we stepped inside.

“Now we’re going up the stairs,” I said, and we did, in the dark, the wooden steps whining under our weight. He was a big man; I’d have had my work cut out for me-if I hadn’t had the gun.

We stopped at the landing where earlier I had spoken to Sgt. Pribyl. “Here’s fine,” I said.

I allowed him to face me in the near-dark.

He sneered. “You’re that private dick.”

“I’m sure you mean that in the nicest way. Let me tell you a little more about me. See, we’re going to get to know each other, Alex.”

“Fuck you.”

I slapped him with the nine millimeter.

He wiped blood off his mouth and looked at me with hate, but also with fear. And he made no more smart-ass remarks.