In the midst of all this, as Jake Emspak sat in his office Sunday morning, behind a mound of microfilmed court records dating back to the mid-fifties, he received a more serious-minded interviewer. The visitor was John O. Callihan, well-publicized sportsman, art connoisseur, world traveler and No. 1 man in the Syndicate. His mistresses, and a few old friends like Jake Emspak, called him Johnno.
"Greetings, Jake," he said, easing his athletic, tastefully dressed frame into the chair in front of Jake's desk.
"Hello, Johnno," Jake rasped. "I'm busy."
"I know. That's why I came."
"I can't talk about this case, Johnno."
"I'm not asking you to."
Johnno lit a long, pencil-thin cigarette, and continued reflectively:
"Jake, I've given you some big cases, paid you well—and always let you handle them clean, in your own way. Right?"
"Right enough."
"This is the first time I've ever come for a favor, Jake."