And now he had ditched the commandeered Mafia vehicle, he was in possession of a precious notebook crammed with deadly intelligence, and he was in his war-wagon and moving xmerringly upon the heartland of the enemy. The time to strike was now, and The Executioner was in wipe-out mode.

If Chicago was shivering in the grip of an icy winter storm, the night club belt along South State Street seemed blissfully unaware — or flagrantly disrespectful — of the condition. The entire district was in full swing, the accumulated mass of garish neon overcoming the blinding effect of the heavy snowfall as it swirled in on this tenderloin of mid-America — and it would seem that this was the chosen Mecca to which large numbers of Chicagoans trekked to forget the bleakness and discomfort of a city under storm. Indeed, it appeared that this belt of frenetic human activity enjoyed some sort of special treatment from the city which it so admirably supported — nowhere else were the snow-plows and street machinery in such abundant evidence and in such perpetual motion. In a city where "clout" is king (political influence, the "fix") it is perhaps then no coincidence that South State Street is one of those districts referred to in the federal crime report which stated: "The criminal element is in complete control of many establishments serving liquor to patrons and all of the cabarets featuring striptease entertainment in the main Chicago nightlife areas."

One such cabaret, Manny's Posh, usually featuring "girls, girls, girls" and catering specifically to the million and a half annual conventioneers visiting the city, tonight stood uncharacteristically darkened and seemingly lifeless. A hand-scrawled sign taped to the front entrance read: "Sorry — Special Party Tonight. Thanks, and try us again."

Inside was indeed a "special party." Glumfaced men congregated at crowded tables and talked in monosyllabic grunts; some jockeyed for positions at the long bar up front, behind which harried bartenders swirled liquids and filled half-gallon beer pitchers for consignment to the table areas.

The small stage near the rear was darkened and deserted except for several men in overcoats who sprawled there in attitudes of relaxed boredom. Behind that stage were several closet-size dressing rooms and a narrow hallway leading to a rear "clubroom" where well-heeled patrons could receive special attentions from the "girls, girls, girls" between shows. The back room was often used as a sex-blackmail and shakedown parlor — and actually produced more revenue than the rest of the cabaret's business combined. This vicious little racket reputedly used real on-duty policemen as the central feature of the shakedown game.

Tonight, however, there were no pigeons and no games in the room behind the stage. On this night, crew chiefs lolled about and talked in low voices of old times and bolder bosses and the troubling uncertainties of living through the night with a madman stalking their streets and threatening to rub out everything that held meaning for their lives.

And in the "sound-proofed back office" at the other side of the club, host Manny Roberts (neeRobert Montessi) was fidgeting in the presence of Loop-overlord Jake (Joliet Jake) Vecci and two of his closest lieutenants, Mario Meninghetti — a muscle specialist — and Charley (Pops) Spanno, an important cog in the district's clout machine.

Manny's best booze was on the private bar and Manny himself was on his very best behavior. It was not often that Joliet Jake personally visited the humble Posh, though it had been a mob hangout since the doors were first opened back in the fifties. Jake, of course, ownedthe joint and the liquor license and everything that went with it. Manny's arrangement could not be regarded as a partnership — he fronted for Jake and ran the place and took twenty per cent of the net receipts plus all he could steal from his trade — but he was purely a hired hand and Manny was not a man to forget his place.

He had offered Jake his own desk to sit at, declined — handmade cigars from Manhattan, declined — and the best whiskey in the joint, also declined. Manny was running out of things to offer the boss, and he was growing more nervous by the minute.

"Is there anything at all I can get you, Jake?" he asked, breaking a prolonged silence.

"Naw, just sit still, Manny. Christ's sake, this isn't a social call."

"I'm not on the carpet or anything, I hope," Manny wheezed.

Mario Meninghetti snickered and drolly observed, "He's got a guilt conscience, Jake. I bet he's been knocking down on th' receipts."

Manny Roberts was wordlessly aghast at the suggestion.

"Or padding the clout books," Pops Spanno put in, leering. "I was talking to Sergeant Daniels just yesterday. He was wondering how come his envelope keeps getting thinner."

"Aw you guys cut it out," Jake said calmly. "They're ribbing you, Manny, Christ's sake. We're here on business, not carpeting."

"Well, yeah, I figured — I mean, I put out the closed sign soon as I got your message. And the boys have been coming in regularly all night. And I just been wondering — well, I mean I guess I'd just like to know what's up, Jake."

"What you don't know won't hurt you none, Manny," Joliet Jake quietly declared. "You're not in this so just shut up."

Manny promptly shut up.

The four men sat in silence for several minutes. Then a knuckle signal at the door announced the entrance of a tall, balding man. He wore a gray suit and topcoat and carried a matching gray hat which was quite wet and still clustered with melting snowflakes.

Without looking up, Joliet Jake told the newcomer, "I been waiting here nearly half an hour, Cap'n."

The new arrival removed his coat and hung it on a rack, then pulled up a chair and dropped into it with a tired grunt. "I'll take a double on the rocks, Manny," he said.

Manny made no move to honor the request; the boss was not drinking.

"I said I been here a half an hour," Vecci declared, speaking slowly and distinctly.

"I got here as quick as I could, Jake," the Captain replied easily. "Hell, I pick up a paycheck from, the city, too, you know."

"Sure, and you know why," Vecci snapped back. "Just don't forget who sponsored you on that fat job, Hamilton."

"How could I forget?" The made cop was smiling affably. "Anyway I'm here and I'm sorry I'm late. I see you've got an army gathered out there."

"That's right," Vecci replied. "And they're ready to roll. Where's those assignments?"

The cop produced a notebook from his jacket pocket. He sighed and said, "We have to play this cool, Jake. You know that."

"Don't we always?" Vecci accepted the book and passed it to Pops Spanno. "Here's your teams," he told him. "Now remember, two boys only to a car. They don't interfere until something really breaks, and they try to act like what they're supposed to be. No talking back and forth between theirselves about company business. And if their cars go in somewheres to eat or something, they don't mix around with no other people. They stay with their cops, and they talk onlyto their cops."

Vecci's gaze flashed back to Captain Hamilton. "When's the pick up?"

"Starts at eleven. I've got them spaced five minutes apart. I don't want it looking like a police convention out there."

Vecci nodded his head agreeably. "Great. That gives us..."

He was interrupted by a rapping at the door. He nodded to Manny Roberts, who then called out, "Yeah?"

A man pushed his head and shoulders into the room and addressed himself directly to Mario Meninghetti. "There's a phone company guy out here. Says we should check this phone in here."

"What the hell for?" Meninghetti responded.

"It's the storm. The bar phone's dead, boss. He says this one probably is too."