you live in the Swamp and you wanna keep living, don't tangle with Grogan.
All right, that's one thing. And the other thing is the money. Where does all the money come from? Well, the list of properties shows the taproom and the poolroom, the dry-cleaning shop and the pawnshop. And the rent that comes in from damn near every rent payer in the Swamp. So put all that together and it mounts up. But it's only part of the money. A very small part.
The real money is the haul from the other activities—the transactions and manipulations that nobody talks about. Not when they're sober or in their right mind, that is. But there were times when some poor fool would have one drink too many, and then it would slip out. So you remember hearing talk about such matters as extortion and strong-arm protection. And some smuggling. And hijacking. All big-time operations ranging from truckload to carload to shipload. That's money, all right. That's heavy gold.
So come to think of it, he didn't hafta tell you that he's got a bundle stashed away. You coulda guessed that. Or decided that. And you're only one of many. It amounts to a long list, this list of people who can guess or decide that Grogan ain't been paying the income tax he ought to be paying. You can't start checkin' the names of that list. You wouldn't know where to start; there's too many names and this ain't like using an index. There's no way to classify or narrow it down to just a few. I think that fifteen grand is very far away. And I think—
But just then he stopped thinking. His brain became a measuring gauge as he heard the sound behind him. It was momentary, a very slight crunching sound, a sort of grinding, then nothing more. The measuring gauge indicated a distance of some thirty feet. It stated further that someone had accidentally stepped on broken glass. The someone had been tailing him, doing it very carefully and without any noise of footsteps, and then the broken glass had functioned like radar and he knew for sure he had company.
He didn't look behind him. He didn't change his pace. He was headed south on Second, moving at medium stride, going toward Addison. His arms swung loosely but his right hand was ready, each swing of the arm brought his fingers closer to the gun under his belt.
But there was no sound behind him, and he smiled dimly, seeing it clearly on the radar screen, knowing that the follower was slackening to increase the distance between them. Also, the follower was probably scanning the pavement for more broken glass, evading the noisemakers. Very neat , Corey thought. Whoever he is, he's an expert.
Then again the measuring gauge was working. The intersection of Second and Addison was less than sixty feet away. About twenty feet away there was an alley entrance. Across the street from the alley entrance a lamppost gave off a fairly bright glow. Corey headed for the alley. He did it slowly, casually, as though this was the route he always took.
As he entered the alley he moved fast. The loose-boarded fence of a backyard was in front of him. He went up and over, then ducked low and waited. There was no sound. Through a gap in the boards he could see the glow coming in from the lamppost on the other side of Second Street. That oughta do it , he thought. That light is just about bright enough.
A shadow ribboned through the glow. The shadow became larger. Corey's eyes narrowed and he peered through the slit in the fence. Then it wasn't a shadow; it was a man standing in the entrance to the alley.
The man was leaning forward, his jutting head moved slowly from side to side as he peered through the alley. The glow from the lamppost lit the man's face and it was the face of Delbert Kingsley.
4
Nothing happened. Kingsley just stood there, his face expressionless in the glow from the lamppost. For a moment his gaze rested
All right, that's one thing. And the other thing is the money. Where does all the money come from? Well, the list of properties shows the taproom and the poolroom, the dry-cleaning shop and the pawnshop. And the rent that comes in from damn near every rent payer in the Swamp. So put all that together and it mounts up. But it's only part of the money. A very small part.
The real money is the haul from the other activities—the transactions and manipulations that nobody talks about. Not when they're sober or in their right mind, that is. But there were times when some poor fool would have one drink too many, and then it would slip out. So you remember hearing talk about such matters as extortion and strong-arm protection. And some smuggling. And hijacking. All big-time operations ranging from truckload to carload to shipload. That's money, all right. That's heavy gold.
So come to think of it, he didn't hafta tell you that he's got a bundle stashed away. You coulda guessed that. Or decided that. And you're only one of many. It amounts to a long list, this list of people who can guess or decide that Grogan ain't been paying the income tax he ought to be paying. You can't start checkin' the names of that list. You wouldn't know where to start; there's too many names and this ain't like using an index. There's no way to classify or narrow it down to just a few. I think that fifteen grand is very far away. And I think—
But just then he stopped thinking. His brain became a measuring gauge as he heard the sound behind him. It was momentary, a very slight crunching sound, a sort of grinding, then nothing more. The measuring gauge indicated a distance of some thirty feet. It stated further that someone had accidentally stepped on broken glass. The someone had been tailing him, doing it very carefully and without any noise of footsteps, and then the broken glass had functioned like radar and he knew for sure he had company.
He didn't look behind him. He didn't change his pace. He was headed south on Second, moving at medium stride, going toward Addison. His arms swung loosely but his right hand was ready, each swing of the arm brought his fingers closer to the gun under his belt.
But there was no sound behind him, and he smiled dimly, seeing it clearly on the radar screen, knowing that the follower was slackening to increase the distance between them. Also, the follower was probably scanning the pavement for more broken glass, evading the noisemakers. Very neat , Corey thought. Whoever he is, he's an expert.
Then again the measuring gauge was working. The intersection of Second and Addison was less than sixty feet away. About twenty feet away there was an alley entrance. Across the street from the alley entrance a lamppost gave off a fairly bright glow. Corey headed for the alley. He did it slowly, casually, as though this was the route he always took.
As he entered the alley he moved fast. The loose-boarded fence of a backyard was in front of him. He went up and over, then ducked low and waited. There was no sound. Through a gap in the boards he could see the glow coming in from the lamppost on the other side of Second Street. That oughta do it , he thought. That light is just about bright enough.
A shadow ribboned through the glow. The shadow became larger. Corey's eyes narrowed and he peered through the slit in the fence. Then it wasn't a shadow; it was a man standing in the entrance to the alley.
The man was leaning forward, his jutting head moved slowly from side to side as he peered through the alley. The glow from the lamppost lit the man's face and it was the face of Delbert Kingsley.
4
Nothing happened. Kingsley just stood there, his face expressionless in the glow from the lamppost. For a moment his gaze rested
Similar Books
