He knew Crotti very well by reputation, had once had him pointed out in a theater crowd in New York. A big-timer, he had started as a minor gangster in Detroit, become in the space of three or four years a national figure. A flair for color, a certain genius for organization, good political connections had kept him alive, out of jail and at the top. The press had boomed him as a symbol: the Crime Magnate — in New York he was supposed to be the power behind the dope ring, organized prostitution and gambling, the beer business — everything that was good for copy.
Crotti said: “This is a miracle.” His voice was very thin, throaty.
Kells remembered that he had heard something of an operation affecting the vocal cords, that Crotti always spoke in this curious confidential manner.
He asked: “What’s a miracle?”
Crotti leaned back in his chair. “In the morning,” he said, “your hotel was to be called, an invitation was to be extended to you to visit me — out here.”
He opened a box of cigars on the desk, offered them to Kells, carefully selected one.
“And here you are.”
Kells didn’t answer.
Crotti clipped and lighted his cigar, leaned back again. “What do you think of that?”
Kells said: “What do you want?”