“No, no, no. He’d never cross the river to Jersey. But I got a real candidate! A turncoat!”

“Somebody who is dishonorable?” said Heller. “Somebody who double-deals?”

“You said it! I got somebody who really deserves it! A filthy, boozing, two-timing crooked crook!”

“You sure?” said Heller.

“Of course I’m sure. There’s no crookeder rummy drunk on the whole planet.”

“Ah, a ‘drunk,’ ” said Heller. “What’s his name?”

“Oozopopolis!”

Heller shrugged, Bang-Bang took it as assent. He got his satchel from the car and sped into the booth closing it.

Through the glass door, Heller watched Bang-Bang wad a rag around the mouthpiece. Then he took a rubber glove out of his satchel and put the cuff over the rag and mouthpiece. Then he took a small tape recorder out of his satchel and turned it on. Faintly, the sound came out of the telephone booth. It was planes taking off.

At least this Bang-Bang knew some tradecraft. He was messing up his voice pattern and, with the planes,

was mislocating the source of the call to some airport.

Bang-Bang spoke briefly into the phone and then hung up. Yes, he did know some tradecraft. His call had been too short to trace.

He recovered his gear and went back to the car window. “Like a hamburger?” he said.

Heller shook his head. Bang-Bang dove into the joint and the girl there began to fry a hamburger in a leisurely fashion.

My toes curled! Tradecraft be (bleeped)! After you make a sensitive call, you don’t hang around the phone booth!

Then I reviewed the rest of it. The car they’d left in there had motor numbers. It was a different make even! If it blew up, nobody would be fooled!

Heller’s tradecraft might be good in its place-getting into forts and blowing them up. But shortly after, in his profession, he would be out in space and not on the planet!

They were howling amateurs!

Six blocks down the street, the garage was in full view!

Heller said, “There’ll be concussion.” He turned the Cadillac around so that it faced the blast more squarely.

Bang-Bang came out with a hamburger and a beer. “You sure you don’t want one?” said Bang-Bang. But again, Heller shook his head.

Bang-Bang settled down and began to eat. “He lapped it up,” he said. “I told him in Greek — I was raised in old Hell’s Kitchen and that’s gone Greek. Otherwise he wouldn’t have believed me.”

“What was his name again?” said Heller.

“Oozopopolis. About a year ago, he stopped taking bribes from us, changed his coat and started taking them from Faustino. And he’s been hitting at us ever since.”

He took another bite of hamburger. “I told him a couple of the Atlantic City mob had been seen looting Faustino’s liquor right down at that address and they were inside stealing the place blind with the outside door locked. Wouldn’t do to get the name Corleone mixed up in it. He sure leaped at it.”

Bang-Bang finished his hamburger and washed it down with beer. He then passed the time by filling Heller in on mob politics.

After a while there was a roar of cars.

Three sedans went streaking by. The seats were full. “You can tell they’re government men, all right,” said Bang-Bang. “The way they carry those riot shotguns. Did you see Oozopopolis? He was the big fat slob in the front seat of the second car.”

The three cars raced the last six blocks and drew to a skidding halt in front of the garage, a reeking bomb of gelignite and alcohol fumes.

Men bailed out, guns ready and threatening.

“Come on out of there! We got you covered!” drifted faintly up the street.

Then a very fat figure raced forward and slammed the flat of his foot against the door.

There was a tremendous flash!

Blue flame and red battered the street!

A fireball bloomed!

The concussion and sound hit the Cadillac! It recoiled and then rocked!

Through the smoke and falling debris six blocks away one could see the strewn bodies.

Heller turned the Cadillac around. “Who was this Oozopopolis?”

“He was the New Jersey district head of BAFT. That’s the U.S. Treasury Department Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco. The Revenooers. The dirty turncoats. Aside from changing sides on us, it was Oozopopolis that planted a machine gun on me and got me sent up.”

Bang-Bang was smiling happily. “Oh, my! Babe certainly will be pleased. Not only did we cost Faustino two million bucks, but we also got rid of the Feds! And it’s about time she got some breaks, let me tell you!”

They wended their way through the fire engines now charging toward the sky-leaping conflagration.

Heller drove north. He patted the car’s windshield ledge. He said, “Well, you chemical-engined Cadillac Brougham Coupe d’Elegance, we got you out of that free and clear.”

I sneered, Fleet officers and their toys. Fetish worship!

Bang-Bang Rimbombo said, “Hey, kid. While in this moment of glory I don’t want to spoil things, I got to point out you are driving on stolen plates and that’s illegal!”

“I’ve got another set of plates, registration card and everything,” said Heller.

“Where’d you get them?”

“Why, from that guy I was going to call.”

“The one you wanted to bump? Listen, kid, there’s a lot you got to learn. The fuzz runs on car plates. If they didn’t have plates, they couldn’t trace nobody. They’d be lost. Their whole system is founded on license numbers. So, if you got dough, I’d advise you to buy a new car. I know a guy…”

“No, I want this one,” said Heller.

“But it’s a gas hog!” said Bang-Bang.

“I know,” said Heller. “I need it.”

Bang-Bang sighed. “All right, I know another guy that can change its motor numbers and get a new license. I owe you. I don’t wanta see you get pinched! Turn left right up ahead onto Tonnelle Avenue. We’re going to Newark!”

They were soon amongst the roar of trucks and gas fumes and, with Bang-Bang’s direction, came to Newark, drove down numerous side streets amongst numerous light and heavy industries but only in heavy polluted air and came at length to the Jiffy-Spiffy Garage. They threaded their way amongst numerous vehicles in various stages of repair and painting.

Bang-Bang leaped out and shortly came back with a portly, greasy Italian in a white foreman’s coat. Heller got out.

“Kid,” said Bang-Bang, “this is Mike Mutazione, the owner, proprietor and big noise of this joint. I told him you was a friend of the family. So, tell him what you want.”

Heller and the man shook hands. “Maybe he better tell me,” said Heller.

Mike looked over the Cadillac. “Well,” he said, “the first thing I would do is run it into the river.”

“Oh, no!” said Heller. “It’s a good car!”

“It’s a gas hog,” said Mike. “A 1968 Cadillac only gets about ten miles to the gallon.”

“That’s what I like about it,” said Heller.

Mike turned to Bang-Bang. “Is this kid crazy?”

“No, no!” said Bang-Bang. “He’s a college kid.”

“Oh, that explains it,” said Mike.

Bang-Bang was hastily tearing something inside the car. He came out with a bottle of Scotch.

“What the hell is this?” said Mike. “Gold Label? I never seen none of this before.”

Bang-Bang wrestled off the top. “It’s so good the Scots guzzle the whole supply of it themselves. Have a gulp.”

“You sure it ain’t poison?” He cautiously took a little. He rolled it around on his tongue. “My God, that’s smooth! I ain’t never tasted anything like that.”

“Just off the boat,” said Bang-Bang. “We brung you a whole case of it.”

“Now, as I was saying, kid,” said Mike, “let’s look over this beautiful car.” Gripping the bottle tenaciously, he raised the hood with the other hand. He got out a flashlight. He was looking at the engine block. Then he shook his head sadly. “Kid, I got bad news. That engine number has been changed too often. And the last ones that did it scored it too deep. It can’t be done again.”