IT was several hours later when the New York gunman again appeared in a realm where gangsters presided. It was after midnight when he walked into Marmosa’s Cafe, and strode up the steps to the gambling den. A man rose from a table at the top of the stairs. It was Steve Cronin, now on his new job.
“Where you going?” he demanded.
“In the gambling joint,” responded Monk.
Cronin stared at the man closely.
“Aren’t you Monk Thurman?” he asked.
“That’s my name.”
“I’m Steve Cronin. Maybe you heard of me in New York.”
“Can’t say that I have. What brought you out here?”
“The coppers were after me.”
“Oh!” Monk Thurman’s voice was contemptuous. “The coppers never get after the guys I run with. We go after the coppers. I’m out of your class, fellow.”