“Hello, Nick,” he said.
The short man nodded. No smile appeared on his dark-visaged face — a face that seemed rough despite the fact that it was smooth-shaven. This man sat in a chair near Cronin, and looked intently at the gangster.
Despite his feigned nonchalance, Steve Cronin was inwardly ill at ease, for he was now in the presence of Nick Savoli, the reputed overlord of gangdom.
The tall, dark, stoop-shouldered man who had accompanied Savoli took a standing position against a bookcase at the side of the room. He was none other than Mike Borrango, prime minister of gangland’s emperor.
There were no formalities in this meeting. Steve Cronin, a gangster of recognized ability, had the privilege of greeting his chief as “Nick.”
The king of the racketeers made no pretense of royal ceremony. He was a man who ridiculed sham, for his real power was greater than that of a monarch. His single word could bring swift death; his henchmen obeyed his commands without a murmur.
Steve Cronin knew that he had been summoned for a mission. He had already received an inkling of this from Mike Borrango, as he had intimated to Joe le Blanc.
He knew that there was a big job ahead, and he could already hear the rattle of a machine gun in his imagination.
Savoli did not speak at once. Instead, he lighted an expensive cigar.
“What’s up, chief?” questioned Cronin, in a hoarse voice. He was anxious to end this tension.