‘You’re sure I’m okay here, fellas?’ asked a man in a rough, rock voice.

That was Vincent Tomalino, Remo knew.

‘Sure. You got us with you all the time,’ said another man. Must be one of the cops, Remo thought,

‘Okay,’ said Tomalino, but his voice lacked conviction.

‘Wanna play some cards?’ asked one of the cops.

‘No,’ said Tomalino. ‘You sure that window should be open?’

‘Sure, sure. Fresh air.’

‘We can use the air conditioner.’

‘Lookit, you guinea stool pigeon, don’t tell us our jobs.’ It struck Remo as amusing that those officers with the heaviest service to the Mafia were always the freest to use terms like ‘guinea’, ‘wop’, and ‘dago’.

Upstairs probably had some psychological report on that. They had reports on everything it seemed, from parking-meter graft in Miami Beach to ex-Mafiosi who were going to be rubbed out because they planned to talk.

Tomalino was going to talk.

On this there were several opinions. The district attorney promised the papers Tomalino would probably spill, but the three policemen had promised the local capo mafioso that he wouldn’t. These opinions were really just opinions because it had been decided in an office in Folcroft Sanatorium in Rye, New York, that Vincent ‘The Blast’ Tomalino not only would talk, but he would tell everything he knew with a pure heart.

‘I want to check the window,’ said Tomalino.

‘Stay where you are,’ said one of the cops. ‘You two keep him on the bed. I’m going to check the roof.’

Remo looked up to the roof. Surprise, surprise—here it came. A rope swooped out in an arch and slapped back against the side of the hotel. It paused there a moment, a head peered over and the rope descended, right past Remo’s knee. He heard the hotel room door open and close, and assumed the officer was going up to the roof to get his payoff immediately after the job was done.