Dave Cates gazed ruefully at the bulletin board. Now more than ever he wished he could qualify for active service.
“Margolo is sore because McGuirk’s cutting into his business, isn’t he?” he asked.
Captain Henessey nodded. “Yes, and that means there’ll be more shooting.”
“Where does Margolo usually hang out?”
“Well, he spends a lot of his time at the Salon Quintesse, that road house out by Syndicate Park. He’s got an apartment in the new Donahue block, too, but I don’t think either of those places is his official headquarters.
“Margolo’s a cagy cuss and he keeps moving from place to place. No telling where he’s located now.”
The captain looked suddenly at the small figure of his radio announcer. “What does this chap look like who pegged you?” he asked.
Cates described the man at some length.
“Sounds like ‘Slim’ Fiske of Margolo’s crew,” commented the captain. “By the way, Dave, what are you going to do about this threat? Take a little lay-off?”
The radio cop drew himself to his full height of five feet seven.