We went into the chief’s private office. He pulled a chair over to his desk for me and then sat in his own, ignoring the ex-dick.
I gave Noonan the sick girl’s document.
He gave it one glance, bounced out of his chair, and smashed a fist the size of a cantaloup into MacSwain’s face.
The punch carried MacSwain across the room until a wall stopped him. The wall creaked under the strain, and a framed photograph of Noonan and other city dignitaries welcoming somebody in spats dropped down to the floor with the hit man.
The fat chief waddled over, picked up the picture and beat it to splinters on MacSwain’s head and shoulders.
Noonan came back to his desk, puffing, smiling, saying cheerfully to me:
“That fellow’s a rat if there ever was one.”
MacSwain sat up and looked around, bleeding from nose, mouth and head.
Noonan roared at him:
“Come here, you.”
MacSwain said, “Yes, chief,” scrambled up and ran over to the desk.
Noonan said: “Come through or I’ll kill you.”
MacSwain said:
“Yes, chief. It was like she said, only that rock wasn’t worth no grand. But she give me it and the two hundred to keep my mouth shut, because I got there just when she asks him, ‘Who did it, Tim?’ and he says, ‘Max!’