I was sitting at my desk dreaming about some dame and downing my morning java like an alkie swigging his hooch when this gink walks in. He was devastatingly handsome, with hypnotic eyes, but the aura of pure depravity surrounding him told me he was a bloodsucking monster. He smiled, and my eyes were drawn to his most prominent feature, two over-sized, glistening muttonchops.
"The name's Evil Editor," he announced, "and I need you to help me get rid of something."
"Stolen crate? Some hop? Hot ice? Your bean shooter? Your moll? Come on, I'm no mind reader. Spill it."
I thought I was up to date on my private dick lingo--in fact, I'm the one who came up with "go over the edge with the rams" and "trip for biscuits." But "slush" was a new one on me. Not that I was gonna let this goose know it. Just a matter of workin' him till he gave it away.
"So where is this slush?"
"In my office. 43rd Street."
"How much you got?"
"That's a lotta slush."
"I got more comin' in every day. That's why I gotta move it fast."
"Where you want me to take it?"
"Wherever. Dump it. Or bring it here and eyeball it. If you find anything we split the take."
"Think I might find something?"
He laughed. "I gotta take a powder. There's two bills in it if you're done by noon. Bring a shovel. "