“Talking about going to the alley in back of Howley’s — well, that’s a good place to unload a smoke wagon! Nobody near there to hear the shots. Funny how Marty got balled up; well, anyway, he’s wise now.”
So saying, Flash Donegan helped himself to another drink.
The fate of Harry Vincent was no longer of concern to him. That young man was to pay the penalty for treading within Flash Donegan’s domains.
The racketeer had disposed of the matter in the simplest fashion, leaving it to such capable killers as Marty Jennings and Lance Bolero.
WHILE Flash was enjoying his grog in his apartment, Marty Jennings was passing instructions along to Lance Bolero.
“Open the door, Lance,” he said. “I’ll drive the buggy out. You hop in beside me.”
“What’s the lay, Marty?”
“Flash thinks we ought to make this guy squawk.”
“All right. That’s a cinch.”
Lance began to step toward the back seat of the touring car, as though he already had a method in mind.