19It was close to eleven when I put my car away and walked around to the front of the Hobart Arms. The plate-glass door was put on the lock at ten, so I had to get my keys out. Inside, in the square barren lobby, a man put a green evening paper down beside a potted palm and flicked a cigarette butt into the tub the palm grew in. He stood up and waved his hat at me and said: ‘The boss wants to talk to you. You sure keep your friends waiting, pal.’
I stood still and looked at his flattened nose and club steak ear.
‘What about?’
‘What do you care? Just keep your nose clean and everything will be jake.’ His hand hovered near the upper button-hole of his open coat.
‘I smell of policemen,’ I said. ‘I’m too tired to talk, too tired to eat, too tired to think. But if you think I’m not too tire
