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And he answered, “Now!”

Immediately the porter in the gray jacket entered the office, pushing Thaxter before him. His I.D. card was open in his hand. He said, “Police, Homicide!” and he pushed all three of us against the wall.

“Wait a minute. Let’s see that card. What do you mean, homicide?” said Cantabile.

“What do you think, I was just going to let you make threats and hold still? After you said how you’d have me killed I went to the State’s Attorney and swore a warrant,” said Stronson. “Two warrants. One John Doe for the hit man, your friend.”

“Are you supposed to be Murder Incorporated?” said Thaxter to me. Thaxter seldom laughed aloud. His deepest delight was always more than half-silent, and his delight at this moment was wonderfully deep.

“Who’s the hit man, me?” I said, trying to smile.

No one replied.

“Who has to threaten you, Stronson?” said Cantabile. His brown eyes, challenging, were filled with moisture, while his face turned achingly dry and pale. “You lost more than a million bucks for the guys in the Troika, and you’re finished, kid. You’re dead! Why should anybody else get in the act? You’ve got no more chance than a shit-house rat. Officer, this man is unreal. You want to see the story in tomorrow’s paper. Western Hemisphere Investment Corporation is wiped out. Stronson wants to pull a few people down with him. Charlie, go and get the paper. Show it to the man.”

“Charlie ain’t going anywhere. Everybody just lean on the wall. I hear you carry a gun, and your name is Cantabile. Bend over, sweetheart—that’s the way.” We all obeyed. His own weapon was under his arm. His harness creaked. He took the pistol from Cantabile’s ornate belt. “No ordinary .38, a Saturday-Night Special. It’s a Magnum. You could kill an elephant with this.”

“There it is, just as I told you. That’s the gun he shoved under my nose,” said Stronson.

“It must run in the Cantabile family to be silly with guns. That was your Uncle Moochy, wasn’t it, who wasted those two kids? No effing class at all. Goofy people. Now we’ll see if you’ve got any grass on you. It would also be nice if there was a little parole violation to go with this too. We’ll fix you fine, buddy boy. Goddamn bunch of kid-killers.”

Thaxter was now being frisked under the cloak. His mouth was wide and his nose strongly distorted and flaming across the bridge with all the mirth, the joy of this marvelous Chicago experience. I was angry with Cantabile. I was furious. The detective ran his hands over my sides, under the arms, up between my legs and said, “You two gentlemen can turn around. You’re quite a pair of dressers. Where did you get those shoes with the canvas sides?” he asked Thaxter. “Italy?”

“The King’s Road,” said Thaxter pleasantly.

The detective took off the gray porter’s jacket—under it he wore a red turtlenecked shirt—and emptied Cantabile’s long black ostrich-skin wallet on the desk. “And which one is supposed to be the hit man? Errol Flynn in the cape, or the check coat?”

“The coat,” said Stronson.

“I should let you make a fool of yourself and arrest him,” said Cantabile, still facing the wall. “Go ahead. On top of the rest.”

“Why, is he somebody?” said the policeman. “A big shot?”

“Fucking-A-right,” said Cantabile. “He’s a well-known distinguished man. Look in tomorrow’s paper and you’ll see his name in Schneiderman’s column—Charles Citrine. He’s an important Chicago personality.”

“So what, we’re sending important personalities to jail by the dozen. Governor Kerner didn’t even have the brains to get a smart bagman.” The detective was enjoying himself. He had a plain seamed face, now jolly, a thoroughly experienced police face. Under the red shirt his breasts were fat. The dead hair of his wig did not agree with his healthy human color and was lacking in organic symmetry. It took off from his head in the wrong places. You saw such wigs on the playful, gaily-colored seats of the changing booths at the Downtown Club—hair pieces like Skye terriers waited for their masters.

“Cantabile came to see me this morning with