“Keep your feet on the ground,” I told Carey. “There are a lot of things to this game you don’t know anything about.”
“Too damned many!” he snarled, but he let the boy go.
There was no open second-story window on our side of the building. Jack rounded the rear of the house and went out of sight.
A faint rustling sounded behind us. Carey and I spun together. His guns went up. I stretched out an arm across them, pushing them down.
“Don’t have a hemorrhage,” I cautioned him. “This is just another of the things you don’t know about.”
The rustling had stopped.
“All right,” I called softly.
Mickey Linehan and Andy MacElroy came out of the tree-shadows.
Tom-Tom Carey stuck his face so close to mine that I’d have been scratched if he had forgotten to shave that day.
“You double-crossing—”
“Behave! Behave! A man of your age!” I admonished him. “None of these boys want any of your blood money.”
“I don’t like this gang stuff,” he snarled. “We—”
“We’re going to need all the help we can get,” I interrupted, looking at my watch. I told the two operatives: “We’re going to close in on the house now. Four of us ought to be able to wrap it up snug. You know Papadopoulos, Big Flora and Angel Grace by description. They’re in there. Don’t take any chances with them—Flora and Papadopoulos are dynamite. Jack Counihan is trying to ease inside now. You two look after