Phil Dobe greeted the one with the mustache. “Hello, Landy. What’s keeping you up?”
Landy stared at the city editor, frowned, looked around the room, frowned at me, coughed. His companion stood by the door and fingered a gold watch chain.
“Got a tip,” Landy said. He looked at me for several seconds. “You Ourney?”
I nodded. “Out of the stir just a few days,” I said. “But I didn’t go up for robbing a bank. I stood a rap because women are the mothers of men—”
“Yeah,” Landy cut in. “I’ve heard that, too. Nice, ain’t it?”
“It’s big,” I said. “Bigger than all outdoors.”
Landy made a noise that was something between a sniffle and a snort. He looked at the bed, then at the bag over in a corner.
“A guy named Malendez got taken for some emeralds over in New York not so long ago. We got a tip
