“New Bronx,” came the third.
“Right,” responded Shires, “and bring me the tickets. Meet me down at the New Era Garage on Eighth Avenue. In the back room I told you about.
“Now listen! This ain’t no tire-slashing job to-morrow night! All that’s been done up in the Bronx. The birds that are parking their cars have begun to get educated. They’re using the garages because it ain’t safe to leave their cars out.
“But these three fellows I told you about have been trying to queer the racket. Calling it a lot of bunk. So they’re getting theirs, see?
“And there ain’t going to be none of us up there when the blowoff comes. That’ll be about three a.m. So at two, we join up at the New Era and pull our stuff down here, with a few places I’ll steer you to.
“The suckers have begun to get smart since that racket of Tim Waldron’s went blooey. There’s a bunch of ‘em need teaching. That’s why we’re giving the dock wallopers a job with our gang. All hands working to-morrow night!”
Cliff heard another voice speak in a low tone. Evidently some one was asking Shires a question. Ernie’s response came softly. Then came another buzz.
Shires began to talk rather loudly, and his words seemed forced.
“Well, boys,” he was saying, “there ain’t no two ways about it. What’s going to be done is going to be done and it’s going to be done right. If you’ll keep mum, I’ll spill some more dope.”
A low, hissing whistle came from somewhere. It was a peculiar sound, like the fizzing of a steam radiator. It brought Cliff to instant attention.