mighty close with their plans." He twisted his head and folded his hands across his stomach.
"Poor Helen—I don't know—she's always come to me when she's been in trouble and I've always been able to help her—but this time—I won't have much to say—maybe nothing—"
For long he rocked there, talking to the memory of the woman whose empty rocker was beside him. Late at night he rose and from his vest pocket drew the worn notebook with pages devoted to dates and hours and the names of men. He studied it gravely.
On the date at the top of a page he placed a gnarled finger. "An ace," he muttered. "They're always the first week in the month, when Pontiac Power pays off its other help." He moved his finger to the first column, which recorded the time and nodded briskly. "Another ace; there never have been two at once." He scanned the names written there and riffled the pages, on each of which was set down the personnel of the board of supervisors. "A third ace—they are all there—every time—" He closed the book and held it between his old palms.
"And—there's a card in the hole, but I'm afraid to look at it—and threes, even aces, aren't much to bet everything on."
