“If I see you again…” he’d said, flashing me his shoulder-holster, “you’ll regret it.”

I hadn’t needed telling twice. The guy was pissed, in both senses of the word, and I wasn’t going to risk a hole in the head – not for any hunch. Besides, I had a bigger lead to follow: “get the scoop” the boss had said, and I’d be unwise to disappoint if I wanted to keep eating for the next month. So like an obedient dog, I’d turned tail and trotted away down the street, leaving fedora-raincoat swaying in the doorway.

With no money for a cab, I hurried across the city on foot. What time did the party get going at the Topaz? I caught sight of a clock through a darkened shop window: 7:20. The slick-suited city boys, swanks and washed-up mafioso would be trickling in soon. I just had to ride in on their coat tails, without attracting too much attention…

The hole in my shoe sapped my confidence a little, as did the squashed-frog squelch with every step. I tried to ignore it.

20 minutes later, I was at the Topaz.