CHAPTER XIIIA Cracksman’s Letter—Concluded!
It seems, Titus, that a guy had drifted into Charon’s plant-joint back in the spring of 1935—get this now—for that year my kick-off ticket was still in force, you see. This guy was carrying the banner—on his uppers, see?—and wore a heavy fox-in-the-brush. He doubtlessly was a crushout from some Southren or Western stir. He wanted to work as janitor—wash corpses—any goddam thing. So Charon took him on. At 2 bucks a week and keep. Never knew who he was. Don’t know yet. Just called him John. Or Pete. Or Sam. Don’t know as he even told Sparkle-Eyes, for she didn’t tell me. But I’ll call him here, Annonymuss John.
Anyway, one day, though, Annonymuss John was setting acrost the back alley from the plant-joint, drinking out of a can of suds, with some
