Liddell shrugged. “I don’t know. Get anything on that killing down in Chinatown this afternoon? Little c***k named Hong.”
“A killing?” Kiely screwed his brow in concentration. “Don’t remember anything offhand. Wait, I’ll check rewrite.” He spun in his swivel chair, yelled to one of the shirt-sleeved men pounding away at a typewriter. “Hey, Roddy! Anything in the stuff from Mac down at the Elizabeth Street station house?”
The rewrite man looked up, peered nearsightedly at a pile of copy paper in his basket. “Nothing much. Couple of gambling raids, a c***k found dead in a tenement—”
“That’s the one,” Liddell told Kiely.
“What’ve you got on the dead c***k?”
The rewrite man picked up the copy paper, glanced through it, shrugged. “The usual. Sounds like he welshed on a bet or something, so
