“I’ll meet you uptown,” he said. “In the drug store, Times station, in half an hour.”
Blaze was on hand, furtive, glancing about him. He suggested a subway ride, and Dugan accepted the proposition. In the subway they got off at Rector, between trains, and Blaze spoke his mind. Dugan had some questions of his own to put.
“You dicks are not so wise,” said Blaze. “You put on masks at line-up, but you have to come out in the open when you testify at trials, and you can bet we’re there to watch you. You pulled in that Greek crowd and you went on the stand. The papers carried your picture. Say, it’s easy. We’re on the lookout for you fellas, same as you are for us. The minute I saw you in the Nest I knew who you were.
“But Black don’t treat me right, see? That blonde is my broad. I mean the singer, Mae Morgan, who made a play for you. I got her that job. She was a down and out dope when I picked her up. Looks different now. She’s got Blacky’s goat, an’ I reckon he’s got hers, though she tells me he said he’d bump her off if she didn’t quit me fer him.
“Thet may be the truth or a stall. He told me to lay off. An’ I wasn’t layin’ off. He may run the racket, but that don’t give him any right to cop my doll. There’s some things a guy can’t stand for. You wouldn’t. I buzzed your broad when I danced with her. She wouldn’t give you erway. She’s solid fer you, but Mae — well, she acted like she still thought a lot of me when Blacky starts to stick me up. He’d have bumped me off if it hadn’t been fer you. And he knew I didn’t have a rod on me.
“I’ll fix him. The whole outfit is lousy. They think Blacky is Gord Almighty. They’ll do me in if we don’t git to ’em first, an’ I’m puttin’ you wise. They’re runnin’ a load to-night. Silk. They’ll come in a launch on top the flood, round midnight. They may stow it or a truck may come fer it. Depends on how Blacky’s fixed up the sellin’ end. They’ve got a snug dump. You’d never uncover it. But you meet me at ten o’clock and I’ll put you hep.”
“Tell me now,” said Dugan.
But Blaze Menken was plainly nervous, fidgeting with his finger ends, flicking the end of his nose. He had said the singer used dope when he met her. He carried all the signs of an addict himself.
“No,” he said. “I gotta go. I’ll meet you at Mother Blinn’s. She runs a lunch dump close to the hide-out. The gang’ll all be away.”
The man was trembling all over. It might be hate, fear, but Dugan thought that Blaze was needing a sniff of cocaine. He was probably in jeopardy. If Blacky had meant to kill him in the Nest he would not hesitate to finish the job. Blaze knew too much. Blacky would not overlook the fact that Blaze might turn on them to save himself.
Dugan let him hop the next train uptown after he had got the directions concerning Mother Blinn’s location — right on the edge of the river, catering to longshoremen and wharfingers. Then he bought a paper, looked at the tide tables. Blaze had told the truth about the tides. It would be high water on the East River at twelve eighteen.
Dugan knew that the racketeers were well-organized. They had spies hanging about headquarters, around the courts. The masks of the detectives were all right for general inspection, but they could not wear them during a trial. It was a weak place in the armor of the law.
He knew also that one of the great assets in making arrests and getting convictions came from flaws in the gangster’s equipment. Jealousies were frequent, of one sort and another — dissatisfaction about cuts in the division of spoil, suspicion that leaders held out on the others. There was little honor among racketeers. And life was held lightly. Their affairs with women were frequently the cause of disruption, if not of downfall.
It looked like a good lead, and he resolved to meet Blaze at ten o’clock.
Mother Blinn’s lunch dump looked like a stranded scow. A long counter with stools ran for two-thirds of its length, stove and supplies back of it. There was a line of small tables, and, in the rear, two cubby-holes of rooms for privacy. Mother Blinn was a mammoth figure, half white, half Cuban negress, powerful enough to run that place where rough men gathered and racketeers dropped in.
Blaze was waiting outside for Dugan in the shadow. He had pulled himself together, seemed confident, crafty, and capable. They went to one of the back rooms. Mother Blinn did all her own work, cooking, waiting, and washing up.
“We gotta order some grub,” said Blaze. “She don’t let you hang round without payin’ fer it. She makes good strong coffee. I didn’t eat no supper. I’m takin’ ham-and.”
Dugan contented himself with coffee and doughnuts. The woman left to fill the order.
“Tell me about this hideout,” said Dugan. “I want to know all about it before I go ahead.”
“It’s a junk warehouse. Salterno has a nephew who buys up the cuttings and trimmings from the loft trade. See? Brings ’em down here an’ sorts ’em. He leases the warehouse. That end of it’s straight. You could search the place any time an’ find nothing. But it’s double-decked — see? The stuff he brings in is all over the floor an’ hides a trap, though you’d have to look close before you found it even when you know about it.
“The stuff comes in the launch, always on the flood. The end of the wharf is fixed so the launch can get right under it, right up to the lower deck. We take it up through the trap as it’s sold. Salterno’s nephew, Rocco, Does most of the delivering.”
“Where is it?” asked Dugan.
Blaze pointed out through the window of the little room to a long, irregular line of wharves and sheds, with docks occasionally in between.
“Fifth one,” he said. “The lower deck is fixed up with bunks, got electric lights. It’s snug enough. We got grub there an’ electric plates fer cookin’ if we need it. We could hide out there fer a week, or a month, fer that matter, if we wanted to. Usually we just use it fer a sort of dump to wait in when we’re lookin’ fer Rocco to show up fer the goods. Play cards there sometimes.”
“Only way in by the trap and by water?” asked Dugan. Blaze’s story was frankly told. Dugan was beginning to plan his attack. They would need the river police.
“That’s all,” said Blaze.
“How many in the outfit?”
“Six, countin’ me out. Two of ’em generally stay in the launch.”
Mother Blinn entered, bringing the food. The coffee was strong, if inclined to be bitter. Dugan put in plenty of sugar and milk, broke his doughnuts and ate them swiftly.
Blaze would admit him to the warehouse, open the trap. It could be closed from beneath. Dugan wanted to make sure, to give the whole hideout a look-over before he made up his campaign. He was not sure what he would do with Blaze. Probably have him held at headquarters.
He looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes after ten. There was time enough, but not too much. They might have some trouble in getting in touch with a river patrol. It would be best to let the stuff be landed, watching them from the farther shore, to wait for Rocco to arrive, or perhaps to stop him, load officers in the wagon, force Rocco to let them in, give the proper signals. Then close in from land and water. There would be a fight. Racketeers were rats, in Dugan’s estimation, but they fought viciously when cornered.
The plans began to shuttle into a pattern in his mind as Dugan stood up. He finished the coffee in one gulp and nodded at Blaze.
The latter’s face had suddenly become distorted, dim. It enlarged, diminished, the walls of the small room seemed to contract, to swirl. A giant hand seemed closing on Dugan’s heart, his brain.