Part 1 (2/2)

”What now?” I grinned. Mike was always indignant over the efforts of the State's Attorney to ”ruin an honest man's business” with his crack-downs on small-time handbooks throughout the city. ”What's his latest move in the battle against Mike Harrigan?”

”This here story in the paper,” Mike declared, ”says how the State's Attorney's office is starting to investigate the lists of the telephone company in order to track down any phones used by us bookmakers in our business. It's illegal!” He concluded with the virtuous snort of an indignant taxpayer shocked by the violation of law, smacking his big red-knuckled hand on the counter top to emphasize his disturbance.

”Aha!” I said. ”In other words the State's Attorney's office is going to find their way into this handbook of yours by the direct approach, eh? It'll take time for them, won't it, to go over the entire telephone lists?”

”You never can tell,” Mike predicted gloomily. ”They might nail us all,” he snapped his big fingers, ”like that.”

I glanced over at the telephone booth in the corner of the store. Its folding door was open, and the ever-present ”Out Of Order” sign was suspended from a cord around the mouthpiece. Over that phone Mike and Mort conducted the bulk of their horse booking business. Through it they kept in touch with a central gambling syndicate service which provided day-long racing results, odds and other essential data to numerous other such small establishments around the city. Through it, also, they took in a nice business of telephone bets from wagerers too busy to get in to make them in person. The never-missing ”Out of Order” sign was to prevent customers from using the telephone for out-going calls which might interfere with business. The telephone was, of course, not at all out of order.

”Maybe,” I suggested cheerfully, taking my eyes from the telephone booth, ”they'll s.n.a.t.c.h out your phone on you. Then where'll you be?”

Mike smacked his open palm against his broad brow.

”My G.o.d,” he exclaimed, ”don't say no such things!”

I gulped the rest of my c.o.ke, lit another cigarette, shrugged cheerfully, and started for the door. I turned before leaving.

”Cheer up,” I said. ”This will probably blow over. And if it doesn't, there's always the army.”

Mike glared and started to answer. And at that moment the telephone in the booth began to ring. He started for it, and I started out the door again, running headlong into Mort Robbins.

”Good morning, good morning, chumly!” Mort exclaimed cheerfully when we had untangled ourselves. ”What's new with you?”

Mort is short, slightly on the plump side, with straight, dark hair, a round, beaming face, and a penchant for flamboyantly colored sport s.h.i.+rts.

”Nothing's new with me,” I told him, ”but plenty seems to be new with Mike. He's cursing the State's Attorney's office again.”

Mort frowned.

”Whatcha mean? What's on the fire now? I didn't read the morning rags yet.”

Briefly, I told him about the news story which had excited his partner. He nodded, thought a moment, then grinned.

”They can't do that,” he said. ”It's illegal.”

”Tell Mike, if that's so,” I said. ”He's working himself into a boil.”

Mort hadn't heard me. He was frowning thoughtfully again.

”Or can they?” he wondered aloud. ”Where's that news story?”

I pointed to the paper on the counter and he stepped over to it. I started to leave again, but at that moment the telephone booth in the corner shook from side to side and Mike stepped out, face red with wrath.

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