Wild raised an eyebrow. "Hell, that is a page right out of the numbers racket…"

"Black Sal Lombardi is nothing if not a shrewd business-man," Ness said, with grudging respect. "He's reduced his overhead and, at the same time, worked out a system that keeps crowds from congregating in one place and attracting police suspicion."

"With bookies continually calling in their bets," Wild said, "they don't have to haul around pocketsful of betting slips, meaning they won't get collared with any slips in their possession."

"No betting slips," Fritchey said, with a world-weary little shrug, "no evidence for a conviction."

"The perfect crime," Seeley said.

"No," said Ness, and a tiny smug smile tugged one corner of his mouth. "It's smooth, it's smart… but perfect it's not."

"Where's the loophole?" Wild said. "How do you raid a bookie joint that isn't there? What are you going to do, kick in the door of every phone booth in town?"

Ness sipped his coffee, savoring the strong brew, and the moment. He said, "Those phone calls the bookies make have somebody on the other end of 'em."

The reporters began to slowly nod.

"We've learned," Ness said, "that there is a 'nerve center,' with several dozen warm bodies working a battery of phones. That nerve center is within spitting distance, gentlemen."

"Yeah?" Wild said, sitting forward.

"It's on the seventh floor of the old Leader Building," Ness said, pointing. "Right across the street."

"Hot damn," Wild said. "When do we go?"

"Right now," Ness said. "You go call your photographers. Meet me across the street, in the Leader lobby, in five minutes."

The reporters were going even as the last word left Ness's lips.

Ness signed the check, slipped on his dark gray fedora, and, walking through the hotel's drugstore, stepped outside onto Sixth Street where a golden Indian summer afternoon awaited.