SHIRES nodded, only half convinced. Tim Waldron detected the man’s lukewarm expression. He was about to reply when a telephone buzzed beside the desk. Waldron answered it.
“All right,” said the racketeer, over the phone. “Tell him to wait exactly ten minutes. Then come up and walk in. Understand?”
He hung up the receiver and looked at Shires.
“Ever hear of Cliff Marsland?” he asked.
“You mean the guy that was sent up for that Brooklyn bank robbery, a few years ago?”
“That’s the one!”
“Yeah. I’ve heard of him.”
“Well, he’s out of the Big House now. He’s downstairs and he’s coming up to see me.”
“Yeah?” Shires spoke in a menacing tone as he leaned forward in his chair and folded his arms in front of him. “What about?”
“If he’s the guy I want — and I think he is” — Waldron’s tones were cold and calculating — “he’s going to draw one grand a week as the big gun of my gorillas.”