A tall, angular, huge-boned fellow stepped silently out of the closet. He had a hawk-like face and a pair of small, shifty green eyes.
“I’m glad to know the gent,” said he. He sat coolly down upon a trunk and began to roll a cigarette. His fingers were supple and discolored. “You see,” by way of explanation, “when a guy is in demand, why it’s him for the deep, dense shade. Do you get me? There is no sense in lingering around in places where you might get sunburned.”
“I think I understand,” said Kenyon.
The Gypsy waved the subject away, as being without special interest. He seemed in a reminiscent mood.
“The night that you came into the ‘Paradise Garden’ is one that will always stick to me,” said he, with a chuckle. “Ah, that was a time when I could rope up the yellowbacks in bundles thick enough to keep back the cops. But New York’s changed since then. It’s full of Chinks, Yiddishers, Guinnies, and people with money.”
“I’ve heard of that old place of yours, often,” spoke the shady one, lighting his cigarette. “But I never saw it.”
“You see,” said the Gypsy to Kenyon. “Big Slim here is from St. Louis. He only struck New York a few years back. They’d never mugged him here, and he was looking for a new field.”
“It should have been ’Frisco or old K. C. for me,” complained Big Slim. “The guns have gone all over this island and there’s not a thing on it, except in Wall Street, that’s not chained short.”
“Well, if you’d drifted in in the old days you’d have found it different. A guy could accumulate a pull then, if he had the change,” stated Brady. “And he could go as far as he liked.”
He paused a moment, then resumed: