He went back to Virginia Street and by chance, recognizing the façade, re-entered the club at which he had begun gambling the evening before. He gave the girl a hundred-dollar bill and she seemed to delay changing it, fussing with money in the cash drawer below the counter; and then, distinctly, perhaps because some sixth sense was tuned for an alarm, Skip heard a buzzer sound somewhere in the rear of the club, near the entrance to the café.

He put his face close to the grill. “Something wrong with my dough, sister?”

She met his gaze calmly. “No, sir. I’ve had to call for some small bills. The manager will be here in a minute.”

Skip looked around. A tall man dressed in a tux, white shirt, black tie was coming toward him through the ranks of slots. He had his eyes fixed on Skip in a way which Skip recognized. He was memorizing Skip’s face. Skip reached at once inside the cage, snatched his bill back, and turned for the door. “Just a minute,” called the manager in a voice of authority.

Skip walked rapidly, bumping into people, shoving others flat against the machines as he passed. One old woman screeched at him, “You better watch it, buddy!”

There was a cop on the sidewalk, twirling his club; Skip went right past, not looking up, the bill clutched tightly out of sight in his palm. He heard voices behind him, looked back briefly. The manager was talking to the cop, his arm raised to point Skip out.

Skip opened his hand and took one incredulous look at the bright new bill. What in hell was wrong with it? There were no visible defects. If it had been counterfeit the girl cashier, long trained to detect phonies, would have spotted it last night. He glanced behind him, found the cop making purposeful progress in his direction. Skip darted into an alley.

It was not an ordinary alley. It was paved and walled with tile, bursting with neon light even by day, the entrances of several gambling clubs open, patrons idling there in the doorways. Skip started to run.

The cop shouted behind him. Skip darted into a club, worked his way across it, found himself at a dead end. There was no other exit on this side.

A sliding door clicked open and he saw the inside of an elevator. He rushed into it. The operator looked at him politely and said, “Sorry, sir, we’re going down. Basement offices.” His look invited Skip to leave before he was suspected of being a holdup artist.