The one buzzer without a name.

“She got a kid?”

“Yes.”

“Baby?”

She thought I was calling her “baby” for a second. Then she figured it out and said, “Uh, yes-year-and-a-half old or so.”

“What color is the baby’s hair?”

“Blond, I think.”

“And Bernice?”

“Well, like that picture-brunette.”

Interesting.

“If you’re looking for her,” she said, exhaling blue smoke, “I don’t think she’s around.”

“Yeah?”

“She’s on vacation. Over a month already. Her brother’s staying in her place while she’s gone.”

“Thank you, miss,” I said, tucking the circular away.

“My name’s Marie.”

“Thanks, Marie.”

“Got a name, cowboy?”

“Nate,” I said.

Her cupid lips formed a kiss of a smile. “Careful, Nate.”

She liked me. On the other hand, I had a feeling all that was required out of me was a pulse. And five dollars.

I nodded and went on up; halfway up the stairs, I heard her close the door. I unbuttoned my topcoat as I climbed. Then I unbuttoned my suit coat and got the automatic out from its shoulder holster. I’d had both my suits tailored on Maxwell Street to hide the Browning. I slipped my right hand with the gun in it in my topcoat pocket.

And now I was on the fourth landing, looking at 4-B.

I stared at the door, at the brass number and letter. I had no backup. I was trembling a little, my body mixing a fear and adrenaline cocktail. Should I wait? Should I kick the door in, or knock?

I knocked.

The door cracked open. The harsh, pockmarked pretty face glared at me suspiciously.

“What do you want?”

I showed her the badge, and said-nothing. She pushed the door shut before I could.

Inside, she was yelling, “Coppers!”

Gun-in-hand still in my topcoat pocket, I lifted my foot and kicked that fucking door. It sprung open first try.