It was not one of the more modern mechanical garbage collectors. It was simply a big, open-backed truck with piles of garbage towering in the body. It had a number of large flags flying from it on staffs and it had huge billboard signs.

TODAY'S GARBAGE

IS TOMORROW'S AMERICA

And another sign:

ENTER THE CONTEST!

WIN A ROUND TRIP

TO THE GARBAGE DUMP!

ALL EXPENSES PAID

The old cab was drawing nearer and was about to come up beside the moving truck. Another sign:

TRUCK 2183

MR. J. P. FLAGRANT

GARBAGE EXECUTIVE

Yes, the ditty was coming from the truck. There were two loudspeakers mounted on the cab. They were singing:

Happy garbage to you.

Happy garbage to you.

Be kind to your garbage,

And it will love you.

The old cab was driving even with the truck window now. Bang-Bang leaned out and yelled, "Pull over!"

The truck driver was wearing a green derby. Yes, it WAS Flagrant! He was staring popeyed at the cab, his eyes fixed on the door sign.

"Corleone!" he shrieked. Instantly he sped up.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Flagrant probably remembered all too well that icy winter ducking in the river he had experienced at the sideways thumb thrust of Babe Corleone! He thought they were after him to throw him in again! Yes, sir! My breaks were holding! I hoped his didn't!

But (bleep) that Heller! He was racing right alongside the garbage truck!

Then the old cab leaped ahead with a ferocious roar. It snarled down the street ahead of the truck. Heller applied his brakes and yanked his wheel.

With a scream of tires, the old cab went broadside. It jarred to a halt.

It was blocking the street!

The garbage truck bore down on it like a juggernaut!

I prayed, hit that cab! Then that will be the last of Heller.

But Flagrant had jammed on his brakes. The heavy vehicle was shuddering to a halt. Oh, Gods, he was going to stop. I wanted to scream "Hit that cab!" Oh, Gods, if he stopped he would be caught.

He stopped.

But he wasn't caught.

Flagrant had the truck in reverse!

It started backwards slowly and then began to pick up speed. He couldn't turn in that narrow street. But he was going to get away!

He was shortly up to what must be forty miles an hour! Backwards!

Bang-Bang yelled, "Shoot out his tires!"

"No!" cried Heller. "We don't want to hurt him, we only want to stop him. Slide under this wheel!"

Heller jumped out of the cab. Bang-Bang slid over and got into the driving seat. Heller slammed the door, dropped a bag in Bang-Bang's lap and stepped on the cab's running board.

Bang-Bang started up and began to chase the furiously backing garbage truck. "Go to it, Flagrant!" I yelled. "Buy me time!"

The old cab was streaking up the street, pursuing the swiftly backing garbage truck.

Heller reached in through the cab window and rummaged with one hand in the bag he'd dropped in Bang-Bang's lap. He took out something.

"Get closer to that truck!" shouted Heller.

There was a cross street. The light was green. Probably Flagrant would have turned, except stopped traffic, waiting for the light, blocked the intersecting streets. He kept backing faster, the huge truck teetering as its engine roared.

The cab was almost bumping the truck's radiator.

Heller was sizing up the truck. The whipping flags were very near.

Heller drew back his hand.

He threw!

Something sailed over the truck's cab and landed in the garbage.

"Bang-Bang! Brake! Stop!"

The old cab tires screamed as they locked. It came to a swerving halt.

The garbage truck was racing away! Oh, Gods, Fla­grant was going to back to safety! He would make it.

BOOOOOOM!

Out of the truck's back and into the air went a geyser of garbage!

Tonnage of garbage sacks shot up the street BEHIND the truck.

A concussion grenade! The other one I had given Silva!

The cab bucked in the blast.

The load of garbage was suddenly a street-blocking barricade. It had flown out of the body backwards.

The truck's rear plowed into it!

It came to a squishing halt!

"Forward!" cried Heller.

Bang-Bang raced ahead.

The old cab came to a stop before the halted truck.

I looked anxiously up at the building we were parked beside. Where was Teenie? Time was growing short!

J. P. Flagrant crawled out of the truck cab, his green derby askew. Heller stepped toward him.

Flagrant fell on his knees, clasped hands upraised in supplication. "Please don't kill me! I learned the lesson that you taught me. I am not a traitor anymore. I will not rat on F. F. B. O.!"

Oh, what a surge of relief went through me. Babe Corleone had done her job too well. When he had promised to tell all before, she had thrown him in the wintry river as a traditore. Smart man! He wasn't going to let that happen again, even if it was spring!

"No, no," said Heller. "We're not here to kill you. We just want some information."

"The Rockecenter interests are sacred!" whined Fla­grant. "You're Corleone. I was wrong to offer to rat. Now let me go back to my garbage."

"Just tell me what the letters F. F. B. O. mean," said Heller.

"Then you're not from the advertising world or you would know," said Flagrant. "Please let me get back to my garbage."

Heller looked at the flags and signs on the truck. The ditty had stopped. He looked at the green derby.

Then he reached into his pocket. Flagrant obviously thought he was drawing a gun and began to weep.

But Heller took out a wallet and looked through it. He found and took out a card. It said:

OWN YOUR VERY OWN

ALLIGATOR FARM, INC.

Ochokeechokee, Florida

Sales Office: Empire State Building

"Advertising?" said Heller. "It just so happens I know of an opening advertising alligator farms in Florida." He gave J. P. Flagrant the card.

Flagrant looked at it. He stopped weeping. He stood up and gave his green derby a twitch. He said, "Fifty thousand dollars a year, one percent of the gross of those sold, a five-year contract with ninety-day option renewal, my own secretary-a brunette, under twenty-five, nice build, nice (bleeps), pretty face?"

Heller said, "I hope the information is worth it. The answer is yes."

Flagrant stood up straighten He gave his green derby a tug. He said, "Well, in that event, I'm hired. As I am now on your payroll, I cannot possibly be a traitor to anyone except you. Right?"

"Right," said Heller.

"So I am not a traitor. F. F. B. O. stands for Fatten, Farten, Burstein and Ooze. It is the biggest PR and advertising firm in the world. It handles the accounts of the Rockecenter interests, amongst others, and until I was unjustly fired I was the Rockecenter Account Executive and also handled the advertising of the Rockecenter-connected firm of I. G. Barben Pharmaceuticals. Also

Octopus Oil. Also Grabbe-Manhattan Bank. Also, also, also, on and on. Billion-dollar-a-year account."

I shuddered. He was spilling his guts, just as I feared. Gods, what was delaying Teenie?

"Who, then," said Heller, "is responsible for the Whiz Kid?"

"Aha," said Flagrant. "The man who cost me my job. I begged them not to hire him and they fired me. The name of that dog is J. Walter Madison, a PR artist known in the trade as J. Warbler Madman."

"Wait a minute," said Heller. "I've met him!"

"And you're still alive?" said Flagrant. "That's a miracle."

"Sincere, earnest-looking young fellow?"

"That's the snake," said Flagrant. "He was hired at the express demand of Bury, of Swindle and Crouch, the Rockecenter attorneys, for the explicit purpose of ruining a man named Wister."