over the country. Until
this moment, it had only been a possibility.

"Mike Sand wanted to get in on some of that," Palveri said. "Well,
it's big money, a guy figures he's got to have competition. But it's
business nowadays, not a shooting war. That went out forty years ago."

"So?" Malone said, acting impatient.

"I'm getting there," Palveri said. "I'm getting there. Mike Sand and
his truckers, they tried to high jack a shipment coming through out on
the desert. Now, the Trucker's Union is old and experienced, maybe,
but not as old and experienced as the Mafia. It figures we can take
them, right?"

"It figures," Malone agreed. "But you didn't?"

Palveri looked doleful. "It's like a curse," he said. "Two boys
wounded and one of them dead, right there on the sand. The shipment
gone, and Mike Sand on his way to the East with it. A curse." He
sucked some more at the cigar.

Malone looked thoughtful and concerned. "Things are certainly bad," he
said. "But how's money going to make things any better?"

Palveri almost dropped his cigar. Malone watched it lovingly. "Help?"
the club owner said. "With money I could stay open, I could stay
alive. Listen, I had investments, nice guaranteed stuff: real estate,
some California oil stuff ... you know the kind of thing."

"Sure," Malone said.

"Now that the contacts are gone and everybody's dead or resigned or
being investigated," Palveri said, "what do you think's happened to
all that? Down the drain, Malone."

Malone said: "But--"

"And not only that," Palveri said, waving the cigar. "The club was
going good, and you know I thought about building a second one a
little farther out. A straight investment, get me: an honest one."

Malone nodded as if he knew all about it.

"So I got the foundation in, Malone," Palveri said, "and it's just
sitting there, not doing anything. A whole foundation going to pot
because I can't do anything more with it. Just sitting there because
everything's going to hell with itself."

"In a handbasket," Malone said automatically.

Palveri gave him a violent nod. "You said it, Malone," he added.
"Everything. My men, too." He sighed. "And the contractor after me for
his dough. Good old Harry Seldon, everybody's friend. Sure. Owe him
some money and find out how friendly he is. Talks about nothing but
figures. Ten thousand. Twelve thousand."

"Tough," Malone said. "But what do you mean about your men?"

"Mistakes," Palveri said. "Book-keep