“Nonsense. Three murderous attacks in succession is sheer coincidence. Chief Painter assures me-”

“Chief Painter lies,” said Rourke. He moved forward and put both palms flat on Bronson’s desk. “Hiding our heads in the sand won’t solve this problem, Bronson. I can name you half a dozen gambling spots that have opened on the Beach in the last two months-all operated by the same syndicate. There’s too much loose money around.”

Bronson swiveled his chair slightly and looked away from the hot glare in Rourke’s eyes. “We’ve always had a certain amount of gambling here,” he snapped. “Miami isn’t a blue-law town. The tourists demand it.”

“But this is big-time organized stuff. With everything that goes with it. I tell you they’re moving in. It’s prohibition days all over again, except on a bigger scale. They’re buying protection, forming their own strong-arm mobs.”

“You’re having nightmares,” Bronson scoffed. “I know Chief Painter. He’s honest and incorruptible.”

“He’s honest,” Rourke agreed soberly, “but he’s in a tough spot. The civic leaders over there are putting the pressure on Painter. He’s human and he wants to keep his job. He’s trying to hold the lid on-and kid himself that it isn’t as bad as he knows it is.”

Walter Bronson took his cigar from his mouth and glared at it. A full inch of one end was a soggy, pulpy mass. “I’m afraid you’re exaggerating conditions in your own mind.”

“I was in Miami back in the ’twenties when Capone’s mob tried to take over,” Rourke said bitterly. “You weren’t.”

Bronson moved a pudgy hand in an impatient gesture. “The situation is entirely different today.”

“You bet it is. It’s worse. We’ve got to open our eyes and stamp it out before it goes any further.”

“That’s a job for the authorities,” Bronson told him.

“It’s a paper’s duty to give its readers the facts.”

“But not one man’s wild fancies.”