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was small for the job but maybe Tony's clients were even smaller, or maybe they rolled over when they came up against his mad-dog ferocity.
    When I'd got all the information he had I told him, "The guy in the shack wants your head on a plate. So you yell, and you run, got that?"
    He had and he did, leaving the gateway in a ripple of footsteps with a long, fearful yell. I watched him go, still unsatisfied. We should have gone by the book and charged them both with attempted assault. Maybe the Crown Attorney would have got information out of them in the morning, when they started plea bargaining. Or maybe they would just have gone back inside for breach of parole. Either way, the law would have been served.
    I shook my head and went back in. Willis was standing hunched over the table, shoulders rounded as he studied the Sunshine Girl in the paper. "I just love that young stuff," he said happily. Then he closed the paper impatiently and turned to me, airing his smile again. This time it looked more relaxed and genuine.
    "Well. Did your play-acting work?"
    "Yes. I got the name of the guy who sent them, no idea why they were sent, just the guy's name."
    I expected him to press me for details but he didn't. Instead he raised both hands to shut me up.
    "Listen. I like your moves, Bennett. What I want is you should follow this guy up on your own. Don't mention Bonded Security. If there's any questions, tell people it's a criminal thing from your own jurisdiction, anything. But keep us out of it."
    I must have looked surprised. He made a placating little gesture. "Yeah, I know that's not the way I came on when I got here but I've been thinking." He took off his hat and rubbed his hand over his slicked down black hair, then settled his hat back on, the way a soldier does, tipping it forward first, then easing it back. "I've been thinking. You're a pro in this kind of stuff. What I am is something different. I'm a guy who sells our company's services. You're the investigator, so investigate, and I'll do my job. Stick at it for a week and if you get results we'll double that five yards, make it a grand."
    "How far do you want me to go?" It was a deliberately clumsy question. I didn't understand him or his offer. His mouth was talking peace and logic, but his eyes were still full of anger. I watched him for body English as he answered, checking for any convulsive movements, sublimated blows that would mean he wanted me to hurt people.
    He put both hands flat on the grimy table. "I want you to find out who set us up, that's all. The authorities can take it from there."
    I nodded, agreeing. "Fine. In that case, I'm going to need a few bucks for expenses."
    "Our limit is fifty a day," he said instantly. "Come into the office in the morning and draw a hundred. But I want receipts or it comes out of my hide."
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    Chapter 4
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    T hey don't give receipts in places like the Millrace. It's cash and carry. All your cash, if possible, for more beer than you can carry. That's why the floor is covered in gray vinyl tile that can be slopped over with a wet mop when the need arises. As Ontario beverage rooms go, it's close to the average. Until the 1960s it was illegal to allow the public outside to see into any place where people were drinking. This means that most old beer parlors are in windowless basements. And Canadian breweries aren't allowed to promote, so the gloom isn't cut with neon beer signs like they have in cheerful corner bars in the States.
    Like most places in town, the Millrace had a cocktail lounge up on the main floor but I didn't bother going in there. When guys like Hudson talk about a bar, they mean the beverage room. Beer is cheaper down there, and that's the name of the game. They aren't looking for atmosphere. In any case, I knew Tony wouldn't be up there. His kind of operation goes on at the despair level of civilization, which is a pretty fair summation of the basement at the Millrace.
    There was