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turned away and started through the entrance of the taproom.

          But Nellie wasn't quite finished with him. Her thick fingers gripped his arm. She turned him, forcing him to face her.

          She said, “Lemme tell you somethin', Bradford—”

          “Drop it,” he cut in mildly. “You've told me before.”

          “And I feel like tellin' you again.” She held onto his arm. He moved to get away, and she moved with him. It brought them into the taproom. Again he tried to pull free, but she held on. Her grip was very tight; it was hurting him.

          “For Christ's sake,” he said. Again he tried to get away from her.

          She held on. “You're gonna listen,” she said loudly, and some drinkers at the tables turned and looked. “You can all listen,” she said to them. “I wantcha to hear this—”

          And then, facing her audience, “I want it to sink in, I want you to list it and check it and remember. This bastard used the badge to steal bread from people's mouths. They hadda hand it over; they had no choice. Pay him off or get busted; that was the way it went. And who does he do it to? His neighbors, his friends, the very folks he knows from way back, all the way back to when he was a kid. Can you top that for underhanded dealing? I got more respect for a second-story man. Even for a purse snatcher—”

          “Say it, Nellie,” a skinny white-haired crone sang out. “Say it like it is, girl.”

          “There ain't nothin' meaner or rottener than a shakedown,” Nellie said it with white-hot rage. “And get this ticket—he was always so nice and sweet about it. Knocks so softly on the door and then comes on with that greasy smile. One hand pats you on the shoulder and the other hand is out, palm open. The miserable creep; he even had them thinkin' he was doin' them a favor—”

          “Disgraceful,” a whiskey-thick voice commented.

          “Believe it,” Nellie nodded in agreement. She looked sideways at Corey and kept tightening her grip on his arm. Her face twisted in a grimace of disgust as she said to the assemblage, “You know how this makes me feel? It makes me feel like I need soap and water.”

          “Then why don't you let go of him?” someone inquired quietly, calmly. “What are you holdin' onto him for?”

          It was the little man, Carp. He stood in the side entrance, his arms folded, his head inclined, his manner that of an official observer.

          “You here again?” Nellie roared at him.

          “I guess we could put it that way,” Carp said. He sent a thirsty glance toward the bar, then unfolded his arms and pointed stiffly at Nellie and said to all the drinkers, “You see what's happening there? You get the drift? She won't let go of him because she can't let go. It's what we call a dynamic situation, the outward manifestations are utterly superficial.”

          “Talk English,” someone hollered.

          “I'll be glad to,” Carp said politely. “In plain English, my friends, she's hot for the man.”

          Nellie let out an animal growl, let go of Corey and made a beeline for Carp. The little man played it with fox-like strategy. He waited until Nellie was just a few feet away, her hands reaching out to grab him. Then with neatness and precision he used his foot to tip over a chair. As Nellie collided with the falling chair, Carp started a circular route that took him swiftly in the direction of the bar. Knowing what was coming, the regulars at the bar reached quickly for their shot glasses and grimly held on. Others weren't quick enough. As Carp flashed past the bar, his arm functioned with the speed of a piston. Before he reached the far end of the bar, he'd snatched and downed a double rye and a single of California brandy. Then he headed for the front door and scampered out.

          Corey strolled to the bar. His hand was in his