And he either passed out or died.

At that moment I couldn’t tell which.

The year before, in May of ’45, I had taken on another job for Jim Ragen; it, too, had the taint of the Outfit. But it did bring Peggy Hogan back into my life.

I didn’t even know she was Ragen’s niece when he pitched me the job. We had just finished lunch at Binyon’s, a no-nonsense, businessman-oriented restaurant on Plymouth, just around the corner from the seedy building my growing private investigative firm was trying to escape from. He’d had the finnan haddie, I the corned beef and cabbage plate. We were sharing one of the wooden booths, drinking coffee.

“I made a mistake,” Ragen said, tiny blue eyes staring into the steaming black cup; he was the kind of man who could admit a mistake, but couldn’t look you in the eye doing it. “I trusted Serritella.”

“That does sound like a mistake,” I said. “He’d sell out God if the devil was buying.”

“I know, I know,” Ragen said, waving it off. Wearily, he said: “Couple years back, I went partners with the senator, on a tip sheet.”

“The Blue Sheet?”

“Yeah. I thought he was operating for himself, but he was playing his usual tricks, fronting for Guzik and company. I don’t mind doing business with those wops, but I don’t want to be in business with ’em.”

“A fine distinction, don’t you think?”

“Not at all, my lad. Not at all. As customers, I got ’em where I want ’em-putting their money in my pocket. As partners, I wouldn’t trust ’em far as I could throw ’em.”

“You think they’ve been using Serritella to worm their way into your business? Into Continental Press?”

“Hell yes. They’ve had their hand in my pocket ever since I went with Serritella; bilking me right along. Of course, I can’t lay my hands on the books to prove it. And that’s why I’m suing the bums. Serritella and Guzik both.”