Johnny stepped from his doorway and walked rapidly to the car as Rogers parked in the only open space in the block, squarely beside a fire hydrant. The sedan’s wheels were still moving when Johnny opened the door on the passenger’s side and slid into the front seat. The nose dipped as Rogers instinctively hit the brake. “Well, well, well!” he exclaimed sarcastically. “Isn’t it fortunate that I’m the cool, even-tempered type who looks first before he shoots? That kind of an entrance can get you lead dimples.” “Or a night stick behind the ear? How’s my friend Cuneo?” “Johnny, I want to talk to you.” The detective swung about on the seat until he was facing Johnny squarely. “You’re going to get yourself so thoroughly—” “I hear you’re acquirin’ a taste for French Seventy-fives, Jimmy,” Johnny interrupted. “You hear a hell of a lot that’s none of your business,” the sandy-haired man said acidly. “I’m warning—” Johnny interrupted again.
