“Can’t a guy crack a harmless joke without somebody talks about altar-bait? You wanna jack, take a jack.”

The man in the chair opened one eye and looked me over. “How long you on the Jersey payroll?” he growled.

“Long enough to know who handles the rank between Jersey and Filly.” I yawned, looked around the wide, cement-floored garage, glanced over the four heavy cars with the Filly crest on their sides.

“Where’s the kitchen? I’m putting a couple of hot coffees under my belt before I go back out into that.”

“Over there. A flight up and to your left. Tell the cook Pintsy invited you.”

“I tell him Jersey sent me, low-pockets.” I moved off in a dead silence, opened the door and stepped up into spicy-scented warmth.

A deep carpet—even here—muffled my footsteps. I could hear the clash of pots and crockery from the kitchen a hundred feet distant along the hallway. I went along to a deep-set doorway ten feet from the kitchen, tried the knob, and looked into a dark room. I pushed the door shut and leaned against it, watching the kitchen. Through the woodwork I could feel the thump of the bass notes from the orchestra blasting away three flights up. The odors of food—roast fowl, baked ham, grilled horsemeat—curled under the kitchen door and wafted under my nose. I pulled my belt up a notch and tried to swallow the dryness in my throat. The old man had fed me a half a gallon of stew before we left home, but I was already working up a fresh appetite.

Five slow minutes passed. Then the kitchen door swung open and a tall round-shouldered fellow with a shiny bald scalp stepped into view, a tray balanced on the spread fingers of one hand. He turned, the black tails of his cutaway swirling, called something behind him, and started past me. I stepped out, clearing my throat. He shied, whirled to face me. He was good at his job: the two dozen tiny glasses on the tray stood fast. He blinked, got an indignant remark ready—

I showed him the knife the old man had lent me—a bonehandled job with a six-inch switchblade. “Make a sound and I’ll cut your throat,” I said softly. “Put the tray on the floor.”

He started to back. I brought the knife up. He took a good look, licked his lips, crouched quickly, and put the tray down.

“Turn around.”

I stepped in and chopped him at the base of the neck with the edge of my hand. He folded like a two-dollar umbrella.