Harry came out of his building into Court Square and headed up the street. People he passed greeted him: Hey, Harry … How you doin’? What’s new?
Keeping out of sight, Friday followed.
Men and women were leaving the bank building after work. Bucking the tide, Harry entered. Waiting at the elevator bank, Harry whistled a bit of Gershwin’s “Treat Me Rough.” When he got to the bridge, he improvised a little tap: a time step—
A passing car momentarily blocked Harry. Friday leaned to the right to keep him in view.
—a shuffle. Flap, flap, flap. Ball charge. Step kick left. Step kick right. A traveling Irish with a ball change. Big finish.
The elevator door slid open.
Harry stepped onto the elevator.
Friday entered the lobby and pressed the elevator button.
On the eleventh floor, Cotton’s door was ajar. Inside the office, a dim light glowed. Harry eased the door open and slipped in.
As before, the outer office was dark. The door to the private office was open.
Inside the room, the desk light was on. Against the far wall was the shadow of someone holding what looked like a sap raised over his head.
“Drop it!” Harry shouted as he burst in—on a janitor who dropped his pint bottle of rye—the man and the sap in the shadow.
“Just wetting the whistle, chief,” the janitor said.
Friday entered.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said.