“I could tell by the way he was standing, the way he leaned against the machine.”
“You didn’t see any cup?”
“Well, no. But he was with the other two, talking with the girl.”
“Where are the other two?”
The attendant blinked his eyes and started to turn his head. Then he stopped quickly as though something hurt him when he tried to turn his neck.
“They got away.”
The manager said impatiently, “What the hell? I hired you because you said you could handle this stuff. You’re supposed to know all the rackets and all of the gangs who work ’em.”
The attendant was getting the cobwebs out of his brain. “Listen,” he said, “that guy’s a prize fighter. I didn’t make him at first. Then when he threw that punch, I recognized his style. That’s Sid Jannix. He was in line for a title once, but they framed him. He’s good — plenty good.” He looked at the officer, and then at me, and said, “This guy is the brains — but he’s a new one on me.”
“This is a hell of a time to say so,” the manager said. “Why didn’t you grab their cups so you’d have some evidence?”
The attendant was silent.