"What are we steering for, anyway?" I asked him.
"For a place where we can talk this out in quietness," was his reply. I came to a stop. That was the second time, within the last few hours, that I had experienced a designing man advocating the advantages of quietude. And solitude of that sort held no charm for me.
"We can talk it out right here. But about the only thing that can talk with me is kudos, known to the mob as money!"
I found it easier to talk to him in the lingo of the underworld, for the situation seemed to smack more of the Eighth Ward than of Upper Fifth Avenue.
His ferrety little face lightened with comprehension. Then he studied my own face, critically, as though he were making some final decision as to whether or not I was going to fill the bill. The result of that scrutiny seemed a satisfactory one.
"Then the matter is easily settled," he announced. "Would five hundred dollars seem reasonable for your hour or two of quite leisurely activity?"
I was staggered, but I tried not to show it. It was, in fact, my turn to shrug.
"That's got to include sleeper and first-class fare to Frisco," I amended.
