DEATH IN THE DITCHby Del Marston
Chapter One
The sun went down but the night was as hot as the day had been, and besides, who could tell the difference once you were inside O’Hara’s saloon? The streetlamps on Halsted would have given more light than the incandescents in O’Hara’s, but Seamus O’Hara was like that, too cheap to put in anything brighter.
“You want another one, Marston?”
Marston pressed his belly up to the mahogany and tilted his shot glass back to get the last drop of bourbon down his gullet. “Yeah, Billy, sure. And don’t use the watered bottle this time. O’Hara’s not watching.”
Billy smirked.
The atmosphere in the saloon was close enough to get in your ears and wet enough to wring out. The Philco in the corner was tuned to the Cubs’ game, covered by telegraph from St. L
