The gangster did not complete the sentence. Nick Savoli rose with a triumphant expression on his face.
“You have it, Monk!” he exclaimed. “What did I say, Mike? This man Monk is a good man! He is wise! He is right! Why did you not say that before, Monk?”
Savoli broke into a flow of Italian, as he volubly pointed out the merits of the plan to Mike Borrango. The enforcer smiled and nodded. All ill feeling was forgotten.
“I was about to say it,” declared Monk Thurman, “but I didn’t have a chance. I had to stop you from bumping off the guy, didn’t I?
“Well, you’re holding him. I’m due there. If I can make him talk, you’ll hear from me right away. If I can’t — well, we can take that up later. Where do I go, Mike?”
BORRANGO scrawled a series of directions on an envelope, and gave the paper to Monk. The New Yorker read the notations carefully, and nodded.
“I’ve got a car outside,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. What is the signal?”
“One quick rap,” said Borrango, “then two slow ones. When you hear two quick raps, give two slow ones. They will let you in when they hear that.”
“Correct.” Monk Thurman repeated the directions, as though to make sure of them. He rose from his chair, and left the den.
“He is a smart man, this Monk,” declared Savoli.