white. They displayed extreme nervousness, looking about as if afraid of being seen; and when one of them spoke to Tony it was in a husky, toneless, blowing voice, like the sound of a dirty phonograph record.
“Are you Antonio Gabrielli?”
“Yes, sure,” Strange behavior for such lusty-looking fellows. He who had spoken unsmilingly winked first one eye then the other, and indicated by a gesture of his head that they should enter the store. His companion looked cautiously up and down the Avenue, while Tony, wondering what ailed them, rolled to his feet and puffingly led the way.
Inside, the spokesman snuffled, gave his shoulders a queer little hunch, and asked, “Can you fix us up, buddy?” The other glanced restlessly about the place as if he were constantly hearing unaccountable noises.
Tony thought he understood clearly now. “Booze, ’ey?” he smiled. “Sorry—I no got.”
“Booze? Hell, no!” The voice dwindled to a throaty whisper. “Dope. Coke, milk, dice—anything. Name your price. Got to have it.”
“Dope?” Tony was entirely at a loss. “What’s a dis, dope?”
“Aw, lay off, brother. We’re in on this. Here.” He handed Tony a piece of paper. “Froggy gave us a coupon. Come on. You can’t go wrong.”
“I no got,” insisted the perplexed Tony; nor could he be budged on that point.
Quite suddenly the manner of both men changed. “All right,” said the first angrily, in a voice as robust as his body. “All right, you’re clever, You no got. Well, you will get. You’ll get twenty years!”
“Twenty year? Whadda you talk?”
“Wait a minute, Mac,” said the second caller. “Maybe the wop’s on the level. Look here, Tony, we’re officers, see? Policemen.” He produced a badge. “A couple of weeks ago a guy was brought in dying for the want of a shot, see? Dope he needed some dope—like this—in his arm. See? Well, we tried to make him tell us where he’d been getting it, but
