It was on the second floor of a rooming house a few blocks north of Addison. It was four and a half a week. As he came in, he saw the note from the landlady; she’d slipped it under the door. It stated that he owed thirteen-fifty and she was sick and tired of waiting for it. If she didn’t get it before the end of the week she’d toss him out. He reached for his wallet, took out three fives, and folded the note around them, like an envelope. Feeling kindly toward the landlady, he went from the room down to the first floor and put the envelope under her door.

In bed, wearing only his shorts, he yawned a few times, then felt the sweat dripping down from his brow and his chin, and wished that a breeze would get started somewhere and come through the window. It’s an oven in here, he thought, then rolled over on his side and told himself to fall asleep. The damp sheet became damper and he kept changing his position and cursing without sound. Then gradually he drifted into sleep.

He slept for less than ten minutes. The noise of the knuckles hitting the door woke him.

He got out of bed and turned on the light. The gun was on the dresser and he picked it up, holding it loosely and looking at it as he heard the knocking again. He said, “Who is it?”

“Police.”

“Whaddya want?”

“Open the door.”

Corey opened the door, still holding the gun and stepping back as two men walked into the room. They wore plain clothes, both were rather tall, and one was semi-bald. The other was dark-haired and sad-faced, with heavy shadows under sunken eyes. He gazed gloomily at the pistol in Corey’s hand. He said, “What’s the gun for?”

“General welfare.”

“Put it away,” the balding one said.

Corey had the gun pointed at them. He lowered it just a little but it was still ready. “Let’s see the credentials.”

They looked at each other. Then they took out their wallets and showed the badges clipped onto the leather. Corey leaned over and read the names on the identification cards. The semi-bald one was William Heeley. The other card read Louis Donofrio. Both names meant nothing to Corey, but he kept looking at the cards in the wallets. He was focusing on something stamped slantwise on the cards. His eyes burned and behind the burning there was freezing. The stamped lettering read “Night Squad.”

Night Squad, he said to himself. And then, looking at the two men, “Night Squad?”

They didn’t say anything. They stood waiting for him to put the gun away. Heeley showed his teeth and Donofrio looked very sad. Corey told himself not to mess with them; they were really Night Squad.