Franky Lyons sat a small round table with two
of his fellow operators.
They were sitting at his table, in his bar.
Together the three of them controlled all the skin trade between Miller field
and Chicago Avenue, and he was their chief.
The heavy rain had forced them inside but they
kept watch over the action from Franky’s table in the window, monitoring the
girls who were out in the weather getting soaked.
The three of them had been sitting together
for a few hours, sipping brandy and comparing notes. They were all eager for
life to return to normal now that the war between Karl Thorrson and Colonel
Forrester had come to an end.
Things were changing on strip; they had been
for the better of a year and now all of them were kicking up to giant gangster from
Norway, an ominous figure who had suddenly emerged as the biggest-meanest guy
in town.
It didn’t matter to Franky who he kicked up
to, all that mattered to him was turning the wheel, keeping cash in his safe,
clean girls on the street and having the right supply of dope to keep them in
line. He was a merchant not a soldier…he was a business man, he enjoyed his
work and he was good at it.
The three pimps sat in the window beneath the
sign outside that had Franky’s name on it beaming brightly in the dark with the
a neon-glow, watching as the beat cops went up and down the strip with their
long coats and plastic wrapped hats, swinging their billy-clubs.
They were supposed to keep a watchful eye on
the cars pulling up to the side of the street, the girls jumping in and out, the
packages of dope getting exchanged for handfuls of cash, and the bag men
carrying the loot to the drop spots.
As long as the beat-boys did their job, Franky
surmised, there would be no need for any of the three of them to get wet that
night.
The storm was fierce, but it was just another
night on Lake Street to him and his partners.
When Franky saw Karl Thorrson walk into the
tavern across the street however, he felt a sense of dread, like a bowling ball
sinking in his stomach; the sight cut against Franky’s sense of good order.
He liked things predictable.
The new crime boss walking the strip by
himself during this downpour was anything but predictable.
Neither of his cohorts had noticed the anomaly
and Franky didn’t say anything to them. He waited and watched and ordered
another round of drinks from his bar maid, Estell.
It wasn’t until the lightning struck and the
crowd began to gather outside of the Round-Up that Franky gave any indication
that there was something amiss…but of course, by then everyone knew.
When he saw Thorrson running away from the
scene as if he were fleeing the site of a murder, with two beat cops and
another guy whom he did not recognize in hot pursuit, Franky decided to alert
his friends to what was happening, then he sent them out to get the news.
Going out into the rain was not what they
wanted to do, but they got their things together and did as they were told;
they had work to do.
Franky went to the telephone and dialed his
contact, Lieutenant Standish, with the Park Police.
When the Lieutenant got on the phone he was
cold as ice, but he said he would send a radio car with a couple of uniformed Rangers
down to check things out, than he hung up with no-so-much as a thank you.
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