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nobody. “OK, everybody, it’s OK. Nothing to worry about now. Back to your tables. The fun’s over. No one can say Fat Sam’s ain’t the liveliest joint in town. Razamataz! Music! I wanna see everybody enjoying themselves.”
    Razamataz hesitantly began playing his piano. The rest of the band joined in. The sound was a little ragged at first, but gradually it got back to normal as everybody once more began to talk, and returned to their places at the tables. Fat Sam moved to the bar. The rest of his gang, more than a little confused, followed him. Knuckles propped himself up at the bar and Sam examined his splurged arm. He touched the gooey mess of splurge and quietly looked at the end of his fingers. He looked very thoughtful, if not a little worried. He spoke softly to himself. He wouldn’t have liked anyone else to know his concern.
    â€œDis means trouble,” he said.

O N E AST 6th Street, by Perito’s Bakery, the broken gutter still turned the rainwater into a nasty brown liquid that dripped on to the sidewalk. The rain had held off for a while and the pool of water had resumed its earlier puddle proportions. The bricks glistened as they caught the light from the neon signs. The ginger alley cat that had made its home in the trash cans spat as he looked upwards to the black metal fire escape. This was his alley and he hated intruders. Up there, hidden away from the flashing neon light, was a dark figure who moved slowly and secretively from shadow to shadow. The ginger cat scurried for cover, his courage deserting him, as the dark feet begin to move down the iron stairs. At the bottom of the fire escape the figure stopped, and remained silent.
    Shoulders had always been a little more secretive than was necessary. He liked being shady, it made him feel important. Around the corner of the alleyway a car approached. Shoulders jumped back against the wall as its lights lit up the wet street. The alley cat dashed for cover once more and took refuge in a pile of garbage. It was obvious to him that he wasn’t going to get any sleep that night. A white sedan pulled to a halt. Shoulders moved out of the shadows and walked up to it. It was driven by a grey-uniformed chauffeur who never looked anywhere but ahead. He was well trained. The windows in the rear of the sedan were covered by blinds. Shoulders moved closer to one of the back windows. The white, fringed blind snapped upwards.
    Inside the car sat a figure that was smart, dapper – in fact, entirely immaculate. He was dressed in an astrakhan-collared coat and carried a black cane with a silver top. His hat would have won prizes at a hatter’s convention. He ran his gloved finger along his moustache which was, not surprisingly, also immaculate. There was no doubt that this man was special. There was no doubt this man had arrived on the scene. There was no doubt that, to Fat Sam, this man spelled trouble. He was Dandy Dan.
    Out of the window he passed a brown leather case with reinforced corners and brass hinges.
    â€œYou know what to do?”
    â€œSure, Dandy Dan,” Shoulders confirmed.
    Dan turned away and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder with his cane. “Step on it, Jackson.”
    This Jackson dutifully did, and the sedan drove off into the night.
    Â 
    Inside the barber shop, the barber snipped away at the back of his customer’s head. Not a lot of hair was cut off, but a great deal of snipping certainly gave the impression that the client was getting his money’s worth. It was an old barber’s trick. The head of hair belonged to Frank Bloomey, Fat Sam’s lawyer. ‘Flash Frankie’ always called here for a haircut on his way uptown. He had a swanky office overlooking Central Park but most of his clients had premises overlooking the East River. On the wall above his desk was a framed certificate from the New York Justice Department, but everyone knew it was the downtown hoodlums who