of his natty blue serge, and crossed the room to deliver it. His feet were long and thin. He looked down at them—after he had handed Barney the envelope—smoothing his plastered black hair on the back of his head with the flat of his palm.
Barney knew him at once for what he was. The East Side breeds them by the hundreds, to be cadets, gangsters, touts, runners-up, the little jackals of organized vice protected by politics. Barney hated them as kikes, despised them as parasites, loathed them as cheap skates, and knew that they were dangerous because they shot where his own sort of tough would use the instruments of battery.
The letter was a typewritten note that read: “My dear Boy; I am to have dinner with a friend, uptown. I am sending an auto for you. Come with the bearer.” It was signed “Your affectionate Papa,” in the handwriting of Babbing’s inscription in his picture books.
Barney guessed that it was a forgery.
