Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part
of a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour,
men out of employment and an inoffensive-looking lot, though of course
they eyed us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed
fellow who had a sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such
a fellow spreading terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely
pressing both temples with his thumbs and drawing his long bony
fore-finger under his throat--the so-called Black Hand sign that has
shut up many a witness in the middle of his testimony even in open
court.
We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was empty, and
sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous California "red
ink" we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place.
In the middle of the ceiling was a single gas-burner with a big
reflector over it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal
oblong window, barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom.
The tables were dirty and the chairs rickety. The walls were bare and
unfinished, with beams innocent of decoration. Altogether it was as
unprepossessing a place as I had ever seen.
Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go,
complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had
made up his mind as to his course of action.
"How sordid crime really is," he remarked as we walked on down the
street. "Look at that place of Albano's.
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