“Barney’s right!” rumbled the boss.
“Perhaps I’d better begin wearing soft shirts and a slouch hat,” Forsythe suggested wryly.
“Be yourself,” grunted the boss. “I’m for you.”
Forsythe departed, content with this assurance of the boss’s support, but not altogether optimistic as to the final outcome. Barney Fogarty retired thoughtfully to his own private office and went into the silences.
After a little of this, some cryptic phoning resulted in a luncheon appointment in a discreet back room of one of the city’s quietest speakeasies.
Late that afternoon Jim Neenan, the handy impersonator and general utility man, presented himself on private business at the offices of Thomas Forsythe, who rather distastefully granted the caller’s request for a confidential conference.
“Look here,” Neenan opened, “I hear you and the boss are honin’ for a pre-convention campaign that’ll limit you an’ Hammond to radio speeches, figgerin’ it would give you a better break.”
“That seems to be Mr. Quaid’s idea,” Forsythe admitted dryly.
“I suppose you know Hammond has a different idea?”
“I have heard as much.”