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was a ten-year-old machine with a familiar rattle deep in its bowels. Jack spent the evening cleaning the motor and concluded he would have to make a trip to the junk shop to salvage some parts.
    The generous sandman of the night before didn't pay him another visit. After tossing and turning an eternity, he gave up and decided to cajole an early breakfast from Esther. As he dressed, he peeked down to the street to see if she had opened. There was no sign of her, but Albright, his dark blond hair golden in the morning sun, swept the stoop below. The apron underneath his coat fluttering around his legs, he worked with methodical care from top step to bottom. Jack knew why Ida had hired him over any of the rowdy neighborhood boys. Conscientious and reliable were all but stamped on his forehead and he would live up to Ida's expectations--at least until homesickness got the better of him.
    Jack shrugged into his coat and, combing back his hair with his fingers, pushed on a hat. Perhaps he wasn't really being fair. Hell, of course he wasn't. Albright seemed like a reasonable guy, good-hearted and, above all, trusting. Maybe even the kind of guy a fellow could talk into lending the bicycle Ida kept for deliveries.
    It was a damned long walk to the junk shop.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
    - Six -
     
     
    Sutton returned the broom to the cellar and went back into the cold for the newspapers. They waited on the cellar steps as Esther had said, wrapped with twine. The door closed behind him and he remembered too late Esther's warning to prop it open--otherwise, the door might stick. Finding it had, he hefted the papers in his arms to carry them around to the front.
    "'Morning, Mabel. Need some help?"
    The cheerful voice overhead nearly startled Sutton out of his skin. It was the fellow he'd met in jail, the one who had left his thuggish compatriot to pay for his breakfast--Jack, if he remembered correctly. Jack grinned over the rail at him as if they were longtime friends and produced a pocketknife, to Sutton's dismay. He'd heard of bootleggers and conmen who had no qualms about killing. That fellow in the restaurant yesterday had been up to no good and if Jack was in league with him, maybe they'd decided Sutton had overheard too much.
    Jack possessed no physical advantage, but the knife persuaded Sutton that retreat would be wiser. He fumbled for the doorknob, then remembered the stuck door. "I'll summon the police," he gasped, a bit of bravado that got him a bemused stare, until abruptly Jack's face cleared, eyes brightening.
    "For the newspaper string." He made a cutting motion with the blade. "You didn't really think--oh, hell, you did." He burst out laughing.
    Sutton dropped to a crate to let his shaky legs recover. Perhaps he read too many novels. But-- "You can hardly blame me for thinking the worst, after yesterday."
    Jack sank to the step, gasping for breath. After another moment, he wiped his face with his sleeve. "I'm not in cahoots with Ned Hennessy. He's got his eye on my shop. That's why he's hanging around."
    "Your shop?" Sutton looked at the faded sign across the alley. "Bailey's Emporium?" Realization struck. "You're Bailey?"
    "I didn't introduce myself before? Jack Bailey." He stuck out a hand. "I guess you've met Ox and Harry?"
    "Yes, I have." Sutton stood, clutching the rumpled pile of newspapers along with his equally rumpled dignity. "And you owe me ten cents."
    Slim eyebrows rose. "Ned come up short for the breakfast?" Jack followed as Sutton headed around to the front of the restaurant. "Just put it on my tab--"
    "Your tab, Mr. Bailey, appears to be at its limit."
    "It's Jack. And don't worry. I'll square it in a week or two. Hi ya, Ida," he said as she appeared with a brown bag. She raked Jack over with a suspicious eye, sniffed, and turned to Sutton.
    "The address is on the receipt. I want you back here quick, so take the bicycle. And don't leave it in the street or some no-account will run off with