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picked up the hairbrush and was waving it wildly at him.
    “All right, Miss Dearborn, I will for now. But you’ll see me again, I’d imagine.”
    “Get out!”
    He walked past Stephanie, who was holding the door open for him. He turned his head toward her, and once again she was staring
     intensely at him. This time, however, he wondered if there were something new in her eyes, a kind of smouldering. He would
     have to see her again, too. Not likely that she knew anything directly about the case, but even if she didn’t, she might unconsciously
     have picked up something, or at least be able to inform him on any revealing quirks of Muffy’s personality. And unless he
     was misreading that new look of hers, getting help from Stephanie should be no problem. It seemed obvious now that she would
     be willing to give him anything he wanted.
    He left the hotel, and strode down Broadway to the battered newsstand.on the corner of Broadway and 50th Street. Jimmy the
     Newsie was there, a stubby little man, skin long ago chafed and hardened by the buffeting winds of winter and the burning
     sun of summer. As always, he was in constant motion, the never-ending stream of people pausing for a moment, lifting up a
     paper, then handing him a couple of pennies, or waiting for their change of a larger coin. His hands and face were streaked
     with the oily black of the newsprint he handled fourteen hours a day.
    In the middle of change-making, he glanced up. “Hook!” he cried, his small eyes lighting up. He was another of those who’d
     won a bundle all those years ago, betting against the marine.
    “Hello, Jimmy.”
    “Tribune? Telegram? Sun?”
Jimmy asked, ready to seize a paper for him.
    “Not just now, Jimmy. I need a favor.”
    Jimmy was selling his sixth newspaper since their conversation had begun. “You got it,” he said immediately, counting out
     change, folding a newspaper and handing it to a waiting regular. “Hey, I heard about Jabber-Jabber Jacoby!”
    “Already?”
    “What do you mean, already? I’m in the news business, don’t forget. O’Hearn told me. You know, the cop with the crooked teeth?
     Jesus Christ, the poor guy, a bullet through the head!”
    “Actually, that’s what this is about. I want you to set up a meet with Two-Scar Toomey.”
    Jimmy stopped dead in his tracks, ignoring the three hands stretched out to him. “Toomey? But—but I heard that Richie Calidone
     and Angelo Ischetta—that you’re the one who stopped ‘em. They were Toomey’s boys, you know.”
    “I know. That’s why I want to see Toomey.”
    Jimmy shuddered, jerked his neck back once, twice, and returned to his customers. “Sorry to hold you up. Here. Three cents
     out of a quarter, thank you, Miss. Thank you, sir.”
    “I’d like you to do it now.”
    Despairingly, Jimmy turned to a small brownish man who was standing tentatively nearby. “Take over for me for a minute, will
     ya, Willie?”
    He drew Lockwood off to the side a few feet away, and his voice went low and urgent. “You’re crazy, you know that? You’re
     setting yourself up if you see Toomey. He’s got to want your hide.”
    The Hook smiled at him. “It’s my hide, Jimmy. I’d really appreciate it.”
    Jimmy threw out his arms in exasperated surrender, his little brown eyes shooting skyward. “Okay, okay! You got a nickel?”
    The coin in his hand, he trotted to a nearby phone booth, dropped it in the slot, dialed, and after two minutes returned to
     The Hook. “It’s all set up,” he said. “He’ll see you right now. His place in Brooklyn. You know the address, right?”
    “Right. Thanks, Jimmy.”
    “Don’t thank me. Not for that. But don’t curse me, neither. Remember, you wanted me to do it.” He was back at the stand, edging
     Willie aside, making change, handing out papers. He shouted out a final word to Lockwood. “I just hope tonight, tryin’ to
     sleep, I can remember that!”
    Lockwood walked over to the Radio City Garage