They approached and took their usual places, Savoli in the large armchair, Borrango against the bookcase. They exchanged glances as they surveyed Monk Thurman. Finally the man with the masklike face seemed to become aware of their presence. He looked from one to the other.
“You are Monk Thurman?” questioned Borrango, as the gangster’s eyes turned toward him.
“Yes,” came the cold, rasping voice.
“I am Mike Borrango,” said the enforcer. He waved his hand toward his chief. “This is Nick Savoli.”
Monk Thurman slowly turned his head and stared at the king of all Chicago. Nick Savoli returned the gaze, and the two men looked at one another steadily.
Both were expressionless, but Savoli’s hardened stare was more than matched by the unflinching features of Monk Thurman.
There was no further effort at introduction. Evidently Monk Thurman was awaiting an explanation from the others. This fact created a great impression upon both Savoli and Borrango.
Most gangsters were either awed or enthusiastic when they first entered the presence of the big fellow. They either wanted to shake hands with Savoli, or awaited some greeting from him. But Monk Thurman did neither. He did not even ask a question. He seemed to take it for granted that Savoli had something to say to him; otherwise he would not have come to this place.
IT was not Savoli’s habit to speak first. So Borrango broke the ice with his suave voice.
Strangely enough, Monk Thurman did not look at the speaker. He still focused his gaze upon Nick Savoli, as though he understood that Borrango was merely the mouthpiece of the big shot.