Ragen’s face turned redder than usual and he clutched the arms of the wooden chair, like a guy in the hot squat when they turned on the juice. “My business is legitimate, Heller! But it wouldn’t be if those dago bastards bought their way in! You think Hoover would put up with that? The mob running the interstate race wire business? Why, we’d have the FBI all over us like flies on horse manure-”

“But you’d be out of it. I didn’t say go in business with them. I said sell out to ’em-take their money, and run. You’ve had your fun.”

The red faded but his mouth became a tight line, which parted, in a barely perceptible manner, as he said, “You think I’m getting old, Nate?”

“You’re not getting any younger. Hell, neither am I. But you are rich. Christ, if I had a tenth your dough, I wouldn’t work another hour!”

The tight line curved upward into the slightest smile. “Bullshit, Heller. You love your work.”

“I love to eat, Jim. Without working, I don’t get to.”

“You love your work, you love bein’ in business. What would you do with your time, lad, if you didn’t have your work, your business? Where would you go? What would you do?”

“I’d think of something,” I said, lamely.

“You’ll die in harness, just like me. Christ! I’m not gonna let a bunch of wop pricks muscle me out of my business! Now, are you in, or are you out?”

Quite frankly, I would’ve been out, friendship or not. And what Ragen was calling a friendship was more a friendly acquaintance. But he had a niece named Peggy, about whom I’ll tell you later. At which time you’ll better understand why I said:

“Yeah. I’ll play bodyguard for you. Or anyway, I’ll put two of my ops on it. I don’t want to be around when the bullets start to fly. I’m not anxious to die at all, let alone ‘in harness.’”