"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 snatch out your phone on you. Then where'll you be?"
Mike smacked his open palm against his broad brow.
"My God," he exclaimed, "don't say no such things!"
I gulped the rest of my coke, 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."
