"Send them in," Burton said, reluctantly putting out his cigar.

Three men entered. One of them, a stocky, world-weary man of perhaps forty, wore a suit and tie; the other two wore work shirts and slacks, one of them lean, hawk-faced, dark, the other burly, square-headed, fair. The latter two, the working men, glanced dourly about the high-ceilinged, ostentatious chamber as if wondering whether to feel intimidation or mistrust. All three planted themselves just behind the chairs opposite Burton's desk, putting a wall between them and Burton and Ness, who stood to greet them.

"I'm George Owens," the stocky man said, gesturing to a hand-painted tie with a sunset on it. His voice was rough and so were his features, gray eyes squinting skeptically out of pouches of flesh. "I'm from the national office of the SWOC. John L. Lewis himself sent me in to advise and counsel these men."

Republic Steel would characterize Owens as an "outside agitator," Ness knew; and perhaps he was.

Burton said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Owens," and extended his hand.

Owens swallowed carefully, like the food-taster for an unpopular king, then stepped forward, past the barricade of the chairs, and shook Burton's hand.

"This is Eliot Ness," Burton said, "the Director of Public Safety."

"Mr. Owens," Ness said, and nodded, and offered his hand.

Owens shook it, firmly, looking at Ness with open suspicion. The hand was rough from manual labor, Ness noted; this meant Owens was not an attorney, which was a relief.

"These gentlemen represent the local strike committee," Owens said. 'Alex Ballin and Harold Selby."

The two men stepped around the chairs, awkwardly, to shake hands with Ness and Burton, and then Burton asked them to sit down. Ballin, the hawk-faced one seemed ill at ease and said little, though he was obviously bubbling with anger. Selby was less stoic, but just as angry.