Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 2, July 1973

Greater Hartford and Queens by Frank Sisk

Faceless, alone, he waited on the rim of hell. For he knew, only too well, that for a man who has betrayed the Mafia there can be no tomorrow-only slow, cruel death in the night.

They said they would give him immunity in exchange for his testimony at the trial of Herman Ventura.

“Immunity from what?” Steinbach asked.

“Immunity from prosecution,” they said, the U.S. attorney named Esmond doing most of the talking.

“That won’t buy me much time,” he said.

“We’ve got enough on you right now, Sol, to salt you down for a good ten years.”

“Sure you have. That’s not the kind of time I’m referring to.”

“We’ll give you protection around the clock.”

“For how many years?”

“Until we feel you’re fairly safe,” Esmond said.

“If I sing, I’ll never be safe, Mister Esmond. You know that as well as I do.”

“Is that your last word, Sol?”

“I sure hope not.”

Esmond’s heavy eyebrows lowered in iron-gray menace as he turned to the deputy U. S. marshal. “Take him back where he came from, George. And throw the key away.”

They let him stew in a cell for a week without exercise and then they had him out again for an airing.

Esmond was sitting at his big desk reading a newspaper. His assistant, a frowzy-haired pipsqueak called Herbert O’Hara, was drawn up to his full height of five feet three before a window, as if on the verge of addressing a jury. Also present was a man new to Sol Steinbach, a tall wiry-looking man with a long sallow face and black patent-leather hair parted in the middle. He was sitting on the edge of the conference table.

“How are you feeling this morning, Sol?” O’Hara asked.

“Like seven days in Vegas with none of the fun,” he said.

“Meaning exactly what?”

“Meaning his throat’s dry and raw from too many cigarettes,” Esmond said, glancing up from the newspaper.

“Right,” Steinbach said.

“Meaning he hasn’t been sleeping any too well,” Esmond continued. “Look at those red eyes, Herb.”

“Now that you mention it,” O’Hara said.

“Peckish appetite. Am I right, Sol?”

“The menu’ll never win any blue ribbons,” Steinbach said curtly.

“Nerves edgy. Notice how he keeps rubbing his fingers together.”

“All right already. I plead guilty.”

“And I bet you’re constipated too.”

Steinbach kept silent, trying not to fidget.

“The Vegas syndrome, Herb,” Esmond said, smiling his mean smile. “Classic example.”

Sol Steinbach found his fingers playing with a button of his shirt. He willed them to stop. The sallow-faced man was watching him like a bird of prey.

“Well, to change the subject,” O’Hara said, gliding slowly away from the window, “your playmates are showing a profound interest in you. Just an hour ago Harold Fitzroy, the great mouthpiece, was nosing around on the matter of bail.”

“How about that? What is my bail anyhow?”

Moving along the wall as if pacing out the dimensions of the room, O’Hara said, “There is no bail.”

“No bail? How come?”

“Fitzroy asked the same question in about the same tone of voice,” Esmond said.

“We told him we were holding you as a material, witness,” O’Hara said from somewhere behind him. “Incommunicado, for your own safety.”

Fear began to gather in his-belly like nausea. “You can’t do that, man. It’s against the law.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Sol,” Esmond said, far from laughing. “We’re already doing it.”

“I got certain rights. Fitz will get a writ of habeas corpus or something and spring me. Sure he will.”

“Very likely,” Esmond said.

“Good, good.”

“Maybe not so good,” O’Hara said, coming to a stop at the wall opposite the window from where he’d started. “Mull it over a little, Sol.”

“What’s to mull?”

“You’re not a blood brother,” Esmond said, carefully folding the newspaper. “You’re not a soldier in the Scarpino family. All you are is a useful associate, a bookkeeper retained through the sufferance of Herman Ventura.”

“So I do a little work for Herman.”

“You do a lot of work for Herman. You have facts and figures on his loan-sharking operation right at your fingertips, facts and figures that Herman himself would have to check out with you before he passed on Scarpino’s cut.”

“I don’t admit any of this,” Steinbach said. “Not an iota.”

“Not yet.”

“Not ever.”

“You’re no clam, Sol. You talk in your sleep. It’s common knowledge.”

“Who says?”

“Ventura says. One-eye Ollie says. A lot of mugs say. You’re kind of a computer brain, Sol, but you’ve got the sort of spine that makes you wobble when you walk.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“I have another opinion too,” Esmond said. “Twelve hours after you leave our custody, Sol, I think you’ll be a dead man.”

“You bastards are trying to connive me into a comer.”

“It’s just part of our job,” O’Hara said, on the slow move again. “One of the pleasant parts.”

“Let’s say Fitzroy produces a writ to get you back on the street,” Esmond said. “Within an hour after you wave us good-by, I plan to obtain a warrant charging you as co-conspirator in the Kessell Construction Company case. Ventura will be named as another conspirator along with One-eye Ollie. Ventura and Ollie will also be designated as defendants. But not you, Sol. You’ll just be a co-conspirator. I’ll explain the subtle differences in some detail to the press. And Fitzroy, I am sure, will explain it all to Ventura.”

Feeling suddenly nauseous and cold, Sol Steinbach said, “You gents are signing my death warrant. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I know nothing of the kind,” Esmond said stiffly.

“I’m dead.”

“Not if you cooperate.”

“I’m dead no matter which way I go.”

“Not at all, Sol. Meet Mister Woolstock. He’s in the Justice Department, all the way up here from Washington.” Esmond turned toward the man lounging on the edge of the conference table. “John, say hello to Sol Steinbach. He’s got to be our ace in the hole.”

“Welcome to the fold,” Woolstock said, not bothering to rise.

“Oh, Jesus!” Steinbach said.

“Have you ever heard of the Organized Crime Act?” Woolstock asked quietly.

Sol Steinbach shook his head.

“Congress enacted it on the fifteenth of October, nineteen-seventy. It’s quite a nice piece of legislation. Gives the Strike Force a lot of leeway in protecting reliable informers and witnesses against retribution from the fat cats.”

“I bet,” Steinbach said.

“Under the provisions of the Act,” Woolstock went on amiably, “we are permitted to give a man like you a complete new identity, from birth certificate, social security number and name. We are also empowered to give you money for a new start, to set you up in another part of the country, to underwrite plastic surgery if you so desire, and to aid you in obtaining employment compatible with your past training. What do you think of that?”

“It sounds strictly from Siberia.”

“There is the debit side,” Woolstock said, lighting a cigarette. “Once the step is taken, you are effectively fenced off from the past. Many old patterns of life must be abandoned. The same with certain old habits, certain old friends. But when you consider that old friends may become dangerous enemies, you will perceive the credit side of the ledger.”

“You talk like a lawyer,” Sol Steinbach said.

“I have the degree but I don’t practise.”

“Well?” Esmond said impatiently.

“I got to give this some thought. A lot of thought.”

“Return him to the think tank,” Esmond directed the deputy.

Sol Steinbach sat and thought for three hours. Then he was taken back up to Esmond’s office. O’Hara was holding the fort alone, a smug grin on his elfin face. He began tapping a yellow pencil against the edge of the desk in time to his words.

“The great mouthpiece has done his work well, Sol. You are now a free man. Under a measly one-thousand-dollar bond. Good-by and good luck.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Why not, Sol?”

“I want to live a little longer.”

“That’s what I call being smart,” O’Hara said, pushing a sheet of printed paper across the desk. “Just sign your name there.”

“What’s it all about?”

“It declares you have volunteered to testify in behalf of the United States in the trial of Herman Ventura and Oliver One-eye Pace. It also commits you to the protective custody of John Woolstock and his staff.”

Events began to move swiftly after that. Esmond returned to the office as if summoned by O’Hara’s thought waves. Woolstock entered a few minutes later, accompanied by an attractive blonde who was carrying several shorthand pads and a handful of sharpened pencils.

“Marie, make yourself comfortable in that leather chair,” Woolstock said. “Are you ready, Sol?”

He nodded mournfully.

“Fine, fine. Let’s start with the shy locking records. Where do they keep them?”

The blonde was taking it down.

“There in Ventura’s produce-company office.”

“Truck Garden Distribution?”

“That’s the place.”

“We figured as much, Sol. We’ve even got a key to the back door. And we’ve been nosing around there at night on three occasions without finding what we want.”

“You been looking too hard.”

“Obviously. One of our specialists opened the safe. Nothing there but money. Lots of it.”

“Did you notice the telephone books?”

“Stacks of them.”

“This year we’re keeping our records in the Greater Hartford directory.”

“Please elucidate, Sol.”

“If you’ll pass me any directory you’ve got handy.”

O’Hara complied.

Smiling faintly, Sol opened the book in his lap. “This little system I worked out myself. Ventura gave me a nice bonus. Now if the young lady will lend me one of her pencils.”

The blonde handed one over.

“Since Kessell Construction is uppermost, I could use that as an example, if you don’t mind.”

“Perfect,” Woolstock said.

“We go to the beginning of the K listings,” Sol said, going to it with several page flips. “KAB Enterprises happens to be the first listing here. So I take this pencil and place a dot under the K, under the E and under each S. Then I go to the next entry. K L M Royal Dutch Airlines. I place a dot under the E. Now I’m looking for an L, so the next entry is no good. The one after that won’t work either. Here we are. Kabel’s Luggage Shop. A pencil dot under the L in Kabel and another under the L in Luggage. You see what I’ve done, I guess.”

“You’ve spelled Kessell,” Woolstock said.

“Right. That identifies the borrower. Kessell. For our type of non-audit bookkeeping it gives us all the dope we need. Better than a D and B rating.”

“Simple and ingenious. Proceed, Sol.”

“I forgot to say we use a black pencil on that. Now we take a green pencil and use it the same way on the street addresses under the K listings. This way we establish transaction dates. With the Kessell brothers, they borrowed a hundred big ones on April two of nineteen seventy-one. I remember this date because it just missed April Fools Day.”

“Apt,” Woolstock said.

Sol turned his attention back on the directory in his lap. “Our shorthand for that date was Ap sec sev one. The first address listed is Windroof Hill Rd. Won’t do. Next is American Row, so we make a green dot under the A. Then we drop down to the next address — no go — and the next — no — and, yes, Phelps Dr. We dot the P and S, giving us so far Ap and s. Next we drop down to—”

“We understand,” Woolstock said patiently. “Go to the next step, Sol.”

“The amounts of money. Okay. For this we use a red pencil.” He again consulted the directory in his lap. “And the phone numbers of course.”

“Of course,” Woolstock said, speaking directly to Esmond and O’Hara. “Let’s get a search warrant immediately, Jim. We know what we’re looking for now.”

Esmond said to O’Hara, “Go over and see Judge Rodner.”

As O’Hara hurried from the office, Woolstock’s gaze returned to Sol’s. “Many of the questions we’re about to ask you are already answered in our files, Sol. Much of this material, however, is inadmissible as evidence on its own merits for one legal reason or another.”

“Sure. I know. Wiretaps. Bugs.”

“Not just wiretaps, Sol. Peter Kessell spilled a lot of beans. But his brother Paul refuses to say a word. He’s afraid.”

“Don’t blame him much.”

“We need a reliable witness to back up Peter’s testimony. You follow me?”

“I seem to be following you straight to hell, counselor.”

“It’s not going to be as bad as that, I assure you. Let’s begin with the vigorish, Sol. What’s the vig on a Ventura loan?”

“It varies. Small loans come high and very short term. Big ones not quite so high, with longer terms.”

“Let’s focus on Kessell Construction.”

“Five per cent.”

“Weekly?”

“What else? Ventura is not your friendly banker.”

Woolstock looked across at Esmond. “In case you’ve never stopped to figure this out, Jim, and in order that Marie may take it down for the record, the Kessells borrow a hundred thousand dollars from Public Opportunities Corporation, an alleged real-estate appraisal outfit, whose executive officer is One-eye Pace, a muscle man pure and simple, who wouldn’t know a title deed from a cornerstone. He’s just a front for Ventura. But on the face of all public records, Ventura has no connection with Public Opportunities. He’s in another business altogether, namely wholesale produce, which he is operating legitimately by the way but at a margin of profit that is microscopic.

“Ventura’s legitimate company is heavily mortgaged to the Shippers Bank and Trust Company, which holds a legal charter from the State Banking Commission and whose president is one Harvey L. Davenport.

“Now who is Harvey L. Davenport? He’s a well-educated business man who happens to be married to Guido Scarpino’s oldest daughter. Which means Davenport is a front for Scarpino, even as Ventura is an apparent front for Davenport. But you can be sure that Scarpino is not on the board of directors of Shippers Bank. Still he is well enough represented to control it. I won’t go into the complex relationships right now.

“Let me get back to the Kessell loan.”

“First, John,” Esmond said, “fill me in on how the Kessells found Public Opportunities — one hell of a sardonic name, isn’t it? — or how Public Opportunities found the Kessells.”

“All right.” Woolstock winked kindly at Sol Steinbach, “As I bumble along, will you be good enough to correct any misstatements I make at once.”

“You can count on it,” Steinbach said.

“A few months before the Kessell Construction Company negotiated the shylock loan with Public Opportunities Corporation, it was in sound financial shape. It was operated as a partnership by Peter and Paul Kessell. They were building homes for the so-called lower middle class on suburban tracts, the look-alike commuter domicile. They were having no trouble in obtaining financing through normal banking channels.

“Then, one fine day, they were offered an opportunity to build a good-sized condominium, something that would finish off at just under two million, yielding the Kessells not only a fair profit but a lot of prestige in the local construction field. There was just one hitch. The condominium developer required that they deposit in escrow one hundred thousand dollars as engagement to satisfactory performance of the contract.

“At this stage, though, Kessell Construction had more homes in the process of building than usual, and their regular credit sources were for the moment tapped out. They hated to lose the condominium contract for lack of a hundred grand, particularly in face of the fact that one tract of homes would be on the market within six weeks, with plenty of liquid assets consequently available. But they needed to make their condominium commitment within a week or lose it.

“They put out feelers. A few days later, a member of the golf club the Kessells belonger to approached Paul Kessell at the bar and said that he’d heard about the big deal cooking and if there was an investment possibility he knew of an interested party. Paul Kessell told this amiable cigar-smoking club member that he and his brother worked solely as partners and never permitted a third party to enter a deal. Then he added — somewhat ruefully, I suspect — that the big deal might be no deal at all unless they could wangle some fast financing, short term, outside their regular banking connections.

“The cigar smoker mused a moment over his martini. Then he said there was a bank he often used himself. Its policies were not quite so stodgy as some of the old liners. Was Paul Kessell interested? Paul Kessell definitely was. Then try the Shippers Bank and Trust, the cigar smoker said. Mention my name if you wish. Here’s my business card. It was Herman Ventura speaking. Am I right so far. Sol?”

“That’s the M. O., counselor.” Steinbach said.

“Next morning, both the Kessells presented themselves at the Shippers Bank.” Woolstock continued. “They introduced themselves and handed Ventura’s card to Davenport’s secretary. But they did not see the president himself. They were routed instead to the vice president in charge of shortterm loans, a prematurely graying man whose name is Mark Martin. Now Martin happens to be a caporegima or lieutenant in the Scarpino organization. Martin does not report to Davenport, he deals directly with old Guido Scarpino himself.

“Anyway, the smooth Mister Martin accepts the Kessell loan application and promises, at their insistence, to give them a decision before the close of the banking day. That afternoon he informs them by phone that, regrettably, Shippers is unable to make the loan. You see, Jim, Shippers is ostensibly an honest bank, abiding by the statutes under which it maintains its charter, but it is beautifully situated to act as a clearing house for its invisible affiliates, such as Truck Garden Distribution, Public Opportunities Corporation and dozens of other enterprises from vending machines to hotels.

“Now before Peter Kessell could be lucky enough to hang up, Martin adds confidentially that there still might be a source of money in another channel. He cautioned Peter that he was talking strictly ex curia, as it were, and preferred that his name was never mentioned in the matter. Kessell foolishly asked for the name of this new potential. Martin gave it to him: Public Opportunities. That was April Fools Day, wasn’t it, Sol?”

“Nothing else.”

“The day after that Oliver Pace gave the Kessell brothers one hundred thousand in hard cash in return for a promissory note drawn up by our friend here, Mister Steinbach. Tell us the terms, Sol.”

“I think you already know ’em.”

“I do. But I want Marie to take it right from the horse’s mouth.”

“Vig of five per cent. You know that. Payable in weekly instalments of one thousand nine hundred and twenty-three dollars and forty cents.”

“Interest was always figured on the remaining principal.”

“Of course. Like any other loan.”

“What was the first week’s vigorish, Sol?”

“Your compute’s as good as mine. Five grand.”

Woolstock, shaking his head slowly, smiled. “So within seven days of receiving a hundred grand from One-eye, the Kessells were required to repay, interest plus principal, six thousand nine hundred and twenty-three dollars and some odd cents.”

“Forty cents,” Sol Steinbach said.

“A nice plain ordinary business arrangement. Tell us about the penalty clause.”

“If they defaulted on a due date, the vig doubled the following week.”

“You mean instead of paying five thousand interest or thereabouts, they had to pay ten?”

“Right.”

“Plus the defaulted principal payment and the new principal payment?”

“Right.”

“Meaning a total payment of more than thirteen thousand might be required in one week?”

“Under the penalty clause, yes. And depending how much of the principal remained on the books.”

“The telephone books?”

Grinning, Steinbach nodded.

“What if the Kessells defaulted and couldn’t get up the full interest and principal payment the following week? What if they could only produce, let’s say, two-thirds of it — nine thousand two hundred and forty dollars instead of thirteen thousand eight hundred and forty dollars?”

“You must have pretty complete files, counselor. It happened like that.”

“How many times in six months?”

“Five or six, to the best of my recollection. The phone books will tell you.”

“Back to that question then, Sol. What happened to the unpaid difference?”

“It was applied to the principal.”

“And began earning a five per cent vig?”

“Yeah.”

John Woolstock turned and addressed Esmond. “What happened here, Jim, was a total disaster to the Kessell Construction Company and its two partners. Three weeks after they borrowed the money from Public Opportunities, a wildcat carpenters’ strike halted all their home building. This strike went on for two months. The Kessells had to strain hard to meet notes due at their legitimate money sources and even harder to come up with the weekly payments to Public Opportunities. Within six months they were bankrupt and Paul Kessell was in the hospital on the critical list.”

“I was wondering when you were going to get to the meat of the case,” Sol said.

“The meat of the case?” Bemused, Woolstock raised his black brows.

“Conspiracy, usury, assault and battery, maiming.”

“Quite an indictment,” Woolstock said. “But the United States is not interest in any of it per se. If One-eye Ollie hadn’t taken Paul Kessell across a state line to collect a pound of flesh, we wouldn’t have been able to hold you.”

“Dumb bastard.”

“Lucky for Uncle Sam.”

“What have we been talking about then?”

“The Kessell case. Which is one of many. All alike in many ways, with a variety of endings, some happier, some much sadder. As you know, Sol, all too well.”

Woolstock found a cigarette and took his time about lighting it.

“Let’s follow the Kessell case to its bitter financial end. From what Peter Kessell tells us, and which I’m sure Sol’s phone books will verify, Kessell Construction over a period of six months paid to Public Opportunities the sum of one hundred and eleven thousand dollars and still owed ninety-six thousand. Is that about right, Sol?”

“You’ve been peeking, counselor.”

“Now let’s take a look at Public Opportunities Corporation. It holds title to a couple of parking lots and that’s all. So another question arises, Sol. Where did Oliver Pace obtain the money he lent Kessell Construction?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

“Of course we know. But tell Marie anyway.”

“He got it from us.”

“Who is us?”

“Truck Garden Distribution, Herman Ventura. Who else?”

“All of Truck Gardens’ corporate records indicate that it is operating a bare thread away from red ink. Now where in the world would Ventura raise a hundred grand overnight for the Kessells, not to mention all those other thousands and thousands he has out on the street right now?”

“You know that too, Mister Woolstock. It comes from Scarpino, and Scarpino gets it, as far as I know, from his gambling operations.”

“Does Scarpino appear himself with a satchelful of money upon demand?”

“No, not at all. I’ve never seen him in person. He sends that bird you mentioned from the bank. Martino — Martin, he calls himself now.”

“It’s not bank money though?”

“Hell, no. The receipt is always made out to the County Grain Company. Martin tucks it in his pocket and leaves.”

“Does Truck Garden ever repay County Grain?”

“Never. I guess there’s no such profit. They don’t tell me everything.”

“I understand that, Sol. But obviously Ventura doesn’t keep all the profits gleaned from this money Martin so readily turns over to him. Where does it go? Back to Martin?”

“Martin’s not on the receiving end. And we keep another set of records for this. In the Queens directory under B.”

“B for what?”

“B for Boss, which is what they all call Scarpino.”

Woolstock looked over at Esmond, who was already reaching for the telephone. “That’s right, John. Make sure the warrant includes all the directories, especially Queens.” Back to Sol, he said. “Exactly what is the financial arrangement, Sol, and how is it handled?”

“Well, the principal and interest of twenty per cent must be repaid at the end of a twelve-month period. This covers each transaction and no transaction is ever less than fifty thousand dollars.”

“Spell that out in a little more detail.”

“All it means is that Ventura is never allowed to take less than fifty grand, even though he may have an immediate need for only ten or twenty.”

“I see. Scarpino won’t condescend to deal in chickenfeed, like the non-existent County Grain.”

“I guess so.”

“On every hundred grand invested, Scarpino gets back within a year a hundred and twenty. Lovely. How much has he got out on the street right now, Sol? Give a guess.”

“I don’t have to guess. Two million one hundred and fifty.”

“That’s a clear profit of four hundred and thirty thousand. On that little game alone. And Ventura’s doing very well too, with all that overage on his rate of interest. Five hundred or so per cent per annum.”

“You add pretty well, counselor.”

“Do you know how much income Scarpino declared last year on his tax return?”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Eighty-seven thousand.”

“Cool, cool.”

“Ventura declared only twenty-two thousand.”

“I declared more than that.”

“We know you did, Sol. You’ve got the makings of a good citizen. One-eye Ollie declared nothing. Not a cent.”

“Figures.”

“One more thing, Sol. How does Ventura get the shy lock money back to Scarpino if not through Martin.”

“It’s placed in a safe deposit box in the Broad Street Savings Bank. I often make the deposit myself, always cash. The box is in the name of J. Livingston. After each deposit the key is mailed directly to Guido Scarpino.”

Nearly a minute passed in silence. Woolstock broke it. “What do you think, Jim?”

“I think we’ve got the makings of a case, John,” Esmond said.

Sol Steinbach, isolated in a fairly comfortable cell, had a number of bad moments before the trial. The worst one was when a new guard tossed a folded piece of paper through the bars and moved away without a word.

Sol had the shakes until a Woolstock aide named Carlson arrived in response to his summons. The young lawyer read the typed note with a brow that grew deeper in furrows and then he arranged, within minutes, to have Sol removed from the cell in the county jail and transported secretly to a military installation.

At the trial a month later he tried, when testifying, to avoid Ventura’s eyes. He somehow didn’t worry too much about Scarpino because he didn’t really know him at all, and besides the old man seemed pretty tired, as if surrendering to an inevitable end. But Ventura’s smouldering gaze scorched him once without mercy.

One-eye wasn’t present. He’d been tried by the State on a variety of charges and found guilty. He was now doing time.

Mark Martin hadn’t been charged. The newspapers reported that no evidence had been developed to prove that he was any more than a glorified messenger boy for Scarpino. This grave misconception caused Steinbach to break out in a cold sweat.

Finally it was finished. Scarpino and Ventura were found guilty of income-tax evasion. Each was heavily fined. Scarpino drew a sentence of five to ten years, virtually life in his case. Ventura, only forty-one, got three to five.

Sol Steinbach’s skin crawled.

Appeal bonds were filed.

He suffered sleeplessly at night.

Known these days as Samuel A. Schneider, Sol Steinbach lives in a small city in South Carolina. He works for the U. S. Department of Agriculture. He painstakingly maintains such reliable records on dozens of research projects involving hybrid grains and organic fertilizers that, in his four years on the job, he has earned two promotions. He recently married a retired school teacher, a year older than he is, but looking much younger.

The hair that was still a glossy black at the trial is now white as snow. His face is much thinner and heavily lined. But he is fairly healthy and reasonably happy.

When Scarpino died in prison two years ago, he seemed to feel a certain weight lifted from his shoulders. A few months later, upon reading a newspaper report that Mark Martin was considered to be Scarpino’s heir apparent, he felt the weight return. A week ago, on television, he saw Ventura leaving prison. His wife inquired whether he was feeling ill. Next day, he heard that Ventura had been picked up by detectives from the district attorney’s office in connection with certain revelations made by One-eye Ollie Pace. He felt a great sense of relief.

That is the way it goes nowadays with Mr. Schneider, much the same as it goes with other law-abiding citizens.