Quick Tony Lavagni sat at a desk in the rear of a shop in Washington's ghetto, counting the day's bag from the most lucrative numbers operation south of Harlem. Wilson Brown, an immense black man and Lavagni's central controller, stood nonchalantly at Quick Tony's elbow, chewing on a dead cigar and watching the count with miss-nothing eyes. Brown was in his early thirties, and the mark of many personal wars, mostly lost ones, was ground into his dusky features; only the eyes showed an aliveness, a quick awareness and responsiveness, perhaps an intelligent wariness mixed with an acceptance of a black man's destiny. Lavagni was in his forties, not appreciably lighter in color than his controller, an emotional man of quick temper, violent tendencies, and a reputation with a knife. It was this latter consideration that had given him the label of "Quick Tony."

Near the front door lolled two of Brown's runners, talking in bored whispers and shooting occasional dark looks toward the men at the desk. Another white man sat in a chair tilted against the wall, trying to read a racing form in the dim light reaching him from the desk lamp.

Lavagni completed the count, consulted the bank sheet, and drawled, "You're fifty short, Wils."

"Naw," the black man replied, bending low over Lavagni's shoulder to peer at the figures. "It's there in the side money."

"Oh yeah, I see. You laid off to Georgetown. How come so much lay off, Wils?"

"I told you, we could get flattened if..." Brown's explanation was interrupted by a muted ringing of the telephone. He scooped it up and grunted into the mouthpiece, chewed the cigar furiously for a moment as he listened to the message, then said, "Okay, then you better try to spread another fifty across the worst numbers. You know what, okay?"

"Another fifty?" Lavagni fumed as the black man hung up the phone.

"You'll be glad tomorrow," Brown assured him. "It's just one of those days, Tony. It's heavy on all the possibles. We're even having trouble placing lay-offs."

The Italian growled something unintelligible and began placing the money in a heavy paper bag.

Brown raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You takin' the whole bank, Tony?"

"Damn right," Lavagni growled. "You send a boy over tomorrow with a voucher, I'll give him the pay-off purse."

"Suddenly Wils Brown ain't to be trusted?" the big man asked in a thickening voice.

"Hey, don't start that — you know me better than to start that, Wils. It's this Bolan. He's been spotted around town, I told you that. I ain't taking no chances on him busting up my banks."

"I thought you were skinnin' that cat, man."

"Yeah, well, certain people are taking care of that detail right now. So don't..." Lavagni was interrupted by another ringing of the phone.

Brown reached for it and Lavagni went on toward the door, then he heard the black man saying, "Yeah he's here, just a minute."

Lavagni turned back with a questioning look. Brown was extending the instrument toward him. "It's your chief rodman. He sounds like his eyes might be rolling."

Lavagni strode back to the desk and snatched the telephone. "Yeah?" he said quietly. His face fell immediately as the receiver rattled with some breathless report, then he deposited the paper bag on the desk and reached for a handkerchief. "No, hell no, keep away from those cops!" he barked, dabbing at his forehead with the handkerchief. "After they leave, you go through there with a sieve. You make damn sure he's not hiding in a john or something. Then you get a rundown on every plane that left out of there during that time, and you get copies of the passenger lists... shit I don't care how you get 'em, just get 'em!" He deposited the phone with a crash and growled, "That bastard!"

"Bolan got away again," Brown decided in flat tones.

"That bastard!" Lavagni repeated.

"I can get 'im."

"Huh?"

"I can get Bolan for you."

"Shit!" Lavagni sneered. "You and what cock-a-doodle army? We got the whole goddam country swarmin' for that guy, and you say..."

"I can kill him with a kiss."

"Hey, I ain't in no mood for... what the hell you mean? You mean the Judas kiss?"

"Something like that," Brown replied quietly. "I did duty with the guy. I know him. I waded rice paddies with him and jungle-skunked 'im for about three months once. Yeah, I could..."

"Then why didn't you say so before?" Lavagni asked coldly, watching the black man through half-slitted eyes.

Brown shrugged. "I'm not no Mar — I'm not one of you, man, I just work here. And I didn't figure I'd get no popularity medals for knowing Bolan."

"Well that's a hell of a goddam attitude!" Lavagni shouted. "Now how'm I supposed to know what the hell you been up to, huh Wils? How'm I supposed to know what you'n that bastard Bolan've been cooking up, huh?"

The two black men near the door were moving nervously toward the disturbance. Brown shot them a quick glance and said, "It's okay." To Lavagni, he said, "Just use your head, that's all. This ain't no confession, you know. I'm telling you I can get Bolan for you."

"Why?" the Italian asked suspiciously. "You're already my best right hand, right here. I admit, you been smart staying out of this other mess. So now why you stoppin' being smart, Wils? Huh?"

Brown shuffled uncomfortably and hunched his shoulders forward in a thoughtful stance. "Well, I been thinking. I'm not no part of nothing, you see. I'm just me, Wils Brown, and I'm whatever I can make for myself. Right? How much can Wils Brown make for himself, Tony, if he gets Mack Bolan for you?"

Brown had come up with the one convincing argument which Quick Tony Lavagni could understand, and with which he could identify. He was quietly studying the idea and scrutinizing his central controller, obviously seeing him in an entirely different light than ever before. "There's a hundred thou contract on Bolan," he explained slowly. "Arnie Farmer has added another hundred thou if he can get his hands on th' bastard while he's still alive."

Brown smiled solemnly. "Well now, see? Wils Brown would kiss Jesus himself to be a part of that purse, Tony."

"I got an interest in anything going in my territory, Wils," Lavagni carefully pointed out.

"Okay, I'd give you a split," Brown agreeably replied.

"And Arnie himself, he's got an interest too."

"He pays out with one hand and takes back with the other?"

"That's business, Wils." Lavagni was deep in thought.

"Like Uncle Sam."

"Yeah, same idea, like taxes you know. Okay, I guess we better go clear this with th' farmer. Get your coat, Wils."

Brown grinned. "You gonna take me to the big man, eh?"

"Yeah," Lavagni replied, frowning. "But listen, you gotta be respectful. You can't talk to him like you talk to me. You call him Mister Castiglione, for God's sake none of this Arnie Farmer yuck, you hear?"

"I'll call 'im Mister God if that's what he wants, Tony."

"Allright." Lavagni suddenly smiled brightly. "Th' Judas kiss, huh? God damn, Wils, just wait 'til Arnie Farmer hears about this!"