“What do you know about him?”
“Where’s this leading?” Morgan was suddenly impatient.
“I’ll tell you. Gleason is running a big dope racket amongst some of the real big shots in the upper circle. He’s got them so short that they’re screaming murder. That guy has a pension from them of nearly a million bucks. Did you know that?”
Morgan shook his head. His thick lips curled a little. “That ain’t true,” he said. “Gleason is only a cheap peddler—was when last I knew him.”
Duffy laughed. “You’re out of date,” he said. “Gleason’s moved into the big-shot class, but he’s smart enough to keep it to himself. He stands no chance of having any political boss smacking his ears down for him.”
Morgan said at last, “I ain’t interested in Gleason.”
Duffy nodded. “Sure you ain’t,” he agreed, “but you’d like his racket, wouldn’t you?”
“When I want his racket, I’ll take it,” Morgan aid, tapping the long ash into the tray.
Duffy leant back and studied the ceiling. “Gleason’s had a list of all his customers and the amounts they pay for protection,” he said.
Morgan looked up sharply. “You said ‘had’?”