“Johnny Pal is a perfectly respectable businessman,” said the man in the silk suit, sitting down across from me. He reached across my desk, took my lighter and pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “I got no idea why people make up these stories about him.” Both the pack and the lighter disappeared into his pocket. I didn’t have the slightest doubt that questioning it might prove harmful to my health.
“I swear, Johnny is nuthin’ more than the President of the Waterfront Honest Businessman’s Benevolent Association,” the man sitting opposite me said. He took a drag from the purloined cigarette, while his companion – a powerfully built, unsmiling, slab of beef – ground his fist slowly into the palm of his other hand.
“You swear on your mother’s grave?” I asked, rather recklessly.
“What?” said the man, his tone suddenly sharp and suspicious. Then, recognizing my intent, he relaxed and gave me a chilling smile. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. On me mudder’s grave.” He gave a wheezing laugh, which sounded as if it was seldom used.
“You reporters are funny guys.” The look he gave me left the impression that ‘funny’ was synonymous with ‘skating on thin ice,’ in his vocabulary
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