he
mistaken idea that Hooligan was a game you beat every other time.

Mike, looking up, noticed my entrance first. He signaled to me,
muttered an excuse to the dice roller at his board, and came quickly
around the counter. He took me by the arm and steered me out into the
building lobby.

"Listen, pal," he half-whispered, "fer gawdsakes don't say anything
about the jerk on the telephone. Mort and me ain't told anyone, fer
fear of the ribbing we'd get, plus the kick in the pants it would give
our regular betting business over the counter."

"You mean the guy's still on the telephone?" I demanded.

Mike nodded a little sickly. "We can't get him off. And since we ain't
letting on to no one about the phone being fritzed that way, every
time he rings, we pretend we're getting an odd change, or some
scratches or result. Mort an' me have been running our legs off, using
a telephone next door to get our prices and results and such dope from
the syndicate. But don't let on. We ain't told no one!"

"Okay," I promised. "I'll keep mum. But who in the hell do you suppose
it is?"

Mike lowered his voice even more, looking furtively around the
building lobby.

"Confidentially, although we don't dare draw attention to our joint
since the State's Attorney is telephone prowling, Mort and me decided
you was right. It must be a loony. All we can do is wait until he gets
tired and gets off."

I nodded. "That's about all you can do," I agreed. "Does he still want
to talk to Hitler and Mussolini?"

Mike nodded disgustedly. "Worse than ever. Calling every twenty
minutes now. Mort and me is going crazy answering them calls and
pretending they ain't nothing but syndicate results."

"I don't blame you," I said. "I would, too." Mike went back into the
store and behind the dice board. I took a coke out of the cooler and
uncapped it on the side of the machine.

Mort sent me a message in his glance, and I nodded reassuringly to
him.

"I don't know anything," I said.

Mort grinned a sick, grateful sort of grin, and went back to the task
of taking quarters from his customers. Taking my time with my
cigarette, I finished my coke. Then the telephone rang, as I'd been
waiting for it to do.

Mort dashed to the booth, closed the door as he entered, and for
several flushed minutes appeared to be talking into the phone and
writing something on a scratch pad. But I knew it was an act from the
pained expression on his face. I knew that the l