When I came out two motorists were glaring at me so I glared back and cranked the car and drove to the Giysi Modern Western Clothing Our Specialty Shop for Men and Gentlemen. I would much rather shop in Istanbul but I hadn’t much time and I knew I would have to dress right for my call on Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. It was vital I make an impression.

The selection was pretty poor, really. But it is the law that Turks must not look like Turks but dress like Americans or Italians and I was lucky. They had just received a shipment from Hong Kong of the very latest Chicago fashions.

I found a gray suit, a black shirt, a white tie, black and white oxfords and a gray fedora hat. They all more or less fit. I changed in back, shortchanged the clerk by palming and swapping a five-hundred lira note for a five at the last instant, glared him into thinking it was his mistake and was on my way.

I looked pretty sharp as I admired myself in a shop window reflection. Just like a film gangster.

Rapidly, I made a round of hotels, looking for Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. It does not take long to do in Afyon. There aren’t many hotels. The clerks shook their heads. No trace of him.

Well, I had another errand. I went to the Pahalt General Merchandise Emporium. It is patronized by peasants and they certainly get charged pahalt, which in Turkish means “high-priced.” In a back room, I had a little talk with the proprietor.

I told him I wanted him to put up a sign that said he bought gold. He said the gold mining districts, such as they were, were further north. I said that didn’t matter: at his prices, the women of the family had to sell their jewelry, didn’t they? And he said that was true. So I told him that any gold he bought from said impoverished peasants, at London prices, I would buy from him at a ten percent markup. He said there wouldn’t be much, but I said how much there was was a secret between us and so we made the sign and he put it up.

Now, I had a way to explain all the gold I was about to dump on the market when the Blixo arrived. I could point out that gold was bought in Afyon. When I unloaded chunks of mine in Istanbul, I would probably never bother to buy the proprietor’s gold.

In the pleasant noonday sun, I sat basking double-parked on the street, trying to figure out where Jimmy “The Gutter” had gotten to. Some carts were blocked. A policeman came along and disturbed my concentration. He bent over and stuck his bristling mustache in the window. Then he said, “Oh, it’s you!”

Well, that was quite a compliment, the way he said it. Sort of alarmed. They think I am the nephew of the original subofficer that was the war hero. After all, I live in his house. He moved on rather quickly to bawl out the carts I was blocking. Oh, it was good to be home!

It must have sparked my wits. Where would a gangster go in this town? Of course, the Saglanmak Rooms! Now, saglanmak, in Turkish, means “to be obtained” or “available.” But there is another word, saklanmak, which means “to hide oneself.” Now, according to that great master, Freud, the unconscious mind can twist words into meanings closer to the intent of the person. These are called “Freudian slips.” This was what must have happened. No matter that he probably didn’t speak Turkish, Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty had made a Freudian slip.

Besides, it was the only place in town the Mafia ever stayed.

I drove through the gathering crowd of fist-shaking peasants and proceeded to the Saglanmak Rooms. But I was cunning now. I double-parked a block away and cased the joint.

There was a balcony that ran around the outside of the second floor and a stairway to it — a vital necessity if one had to get out a window and escape quickly.

I went in. I walked up to the desk. The clerk was a young Turk with his hair plastered down. He had earlier told me no such name was in the hotel. I didn’t bother with him. I reached over the desk and into the niche for the box of room cards. The clerk stood back.

I went through the cards. No Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty.

He had said he had been around for weeks. I checked dates. And there it was! John Smith!

“I thought,” I sneered at the clerk, “that you said Tavilnasty wasn’t here!”

He was reaching for the phone. I clamped his wrist. “No,” I said. “He is a friend. I want to surprise him.”

The clerk frowned.

I laid a ten-lira note on the desk.

The frown lightened.

I laid a fifty-lira note on the desk.

The clerk smiled.

“Point out the room,” I said.

He indicated the one at the exact top of the steps on the second floor.

“He is in?” I asked.

The clerk nodded.

“Now, here is what I want you to do. Take a bottle of Scotch — the Arab counterfeit will do — and two glasses and put them on a tray. Just three minutes after I leave this desk, you take that tray up to his room and knock.”

I kept laying hundred-lira notes on the counter until the clerk smiled. It was a seven-hundred-lira smile.

I had him note the time. I synchronized my watch.

I went back out the front door.

In a leisurely fashion, but silently, I went up the outside steps.

With care, I marked the exact outside window of the indicated room. It was open.

I waited.

Exactly on time, a knock sounded on the door.

A bed creaked.

I stole to the window.

Sure enough, there was my man. He had a Colt .45 in his hand and he was cat-footing to the door. His back was to me at the window.

I knew it would be this way. Mafia hit men lead nervous lives.

Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty reached for the knob, gun held on the door. That was my cue!

The door was swinging open.

I stepped through the window.

I said, in a loud voice, “Surprise!”

He half-turned in shock.

He sent a bullet slamming into the wall above me!

The shot had not even begun to echo before he charged out the door.

The effect was catastrophic. He collided with the clerk and tray!

In a scramble of Scotch and glasses, arms, legs and two more inadvertently triggered shots, they went avalanching down the stairs.

With a thud and final tinkle they wound up at the bottom.

I trotted down the stairs after them and plucked the gun from Jimmy “The Gutter’s” stunned hand.

“What a way to greet an old pal,” I said. That’s the way to handle them. Purely textbook psychology. It says to get them off-balance.

Tavilnasty was not only off-balance, he was out cold.

The clerk lay there looking at me in horror. I realized I had Tavilnasty’s gun pointed at him. I put the safety on. I said, “You were clumsy. You broke that bottle of Scotch. Now get up and get another one on the house.”

The clerk scrambled away.

I picked up Tavilnasty and got him over to a small back table in the lounge. He was coming around.

The clerk, shaking, brought in another bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

I handed Tavilnasty his gun.

I poured him a drink. He drank it.

Then his ugly, pockmarked face was really a study. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I just didn’t want to get shot,” I said.

He couldn’t quite understand this. I poured him another drink.

I tried another tack. “I could have killed you and I didn’t. Therefore that proves I am your friend.”

He considered this and rubbed a couple of bruises on his head. I poured him another drink.

“How’s Babe?” I said.

He really stared at me.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Babe Corleone, my old flame.”

“You know Babe?”

“Sure, I know Babe.”

“Where did you know Babe?”

“Around,” I said.

He drank the Scotch.

“You from the DEA?”

I laughed.

“You from the CIA?”

I laughed.

“You from the FBI?”

I poured him another drink. “I’m from the World Health Operation. I’m going to make you your fortune.”