On the way, he asked to stop at Arsenal Street. He said he had an apartment there. He had some sample cases he wanted to pick up—he was, he said, a salesman of some kind. Then he spotted a tavern, Brownie’s just east of Gravois Avenue on Arsenal, and told me to pull over. He wanted a quick drink. I waited for him. Then he went inside his apartment house and I again waited outside. He returned twice, first with a metal suitcase, then with a footlocker. Struggling with them.

We loaded up my trunk with them, or I should say I loaded them up—he was bent over catching his breath. How much did they weigh? The suitcase, thirty to thirty-five pounds. The foot-locker, forty to fifty pounds. He seemed very concerned about them, making sure they were locked.

We set out again, and I took him to the Jefferson Hotel, where I thought I might find Johnny Hagan. I knew that Johnny had several girls he, uh, worked with. He was happy to take Steve off my hands, and helped me load that heavy luggage in his own trunk.

* * *

Next in was a broad-shouldered, black-haired lady-killer about five ten, his handsome, five o’clock-shadowed features compromised only by a scar through his upper lip. He wore the cap of his trade with triangular ACE CAB patch, a black leather zippered jacket, a yellow shirt with a red tie, pleated wide leg pants, and black-and-white wingtips.

Costello said, “This is Johnny Hagan, Nate.”

Hagan came over, took his cap off with his left hand and offered his right. Without getting up, I shook it and nodded. He pulled up another wooden chair and angled it toward me. While Hagan spoke, Costello made a muffled phone call, keeping his voice down, but I caught it: “Yeah, he’s here.…Filling him in…Yeah.…Yeah.”

* * *

There’s a few girls I work with, Hagan said, but the best of ’em is Sandy O’Day. Smart and good-looking and honest for, you know, a doxy. Perfect for a big spender like this Steve character.

I pick her up at her apartment over on North Ninth Street, and she gets in back with Steve and they hit it off fine. I take ’em to McNamee’s Bar at 2500 St. Louis Avenue for a couple of drinks, beer for Steve and me, highball for Sandy. The only thing that gives me, you know, pause was he had a bulge in his right-hand coat pocket. Might be a gun, so suddenly I think maybe my fare’s a vice cop.

I follow him to the can and at the urinals, I say, ‘Steve, I’m only fixing you up with Sandy as a favor. You wouldn’t return a favor by busting me, would you? I mean, you aren’t a cop, are you?’

‘Johnny boy,’ he says, ‘if you knew the truth, you’d know just how wrong you are.’

Back at the bar, he pays for the drinks with a twenty and pushes the change across the table to me, and says, ‘Here, it’s all yours.’ Which is when I realize I better not let this angel fly away.