"I'm not ready to hassle about that yet, Ned. I've got something more important to worry about." "This is important." "Mine's worse." "I thought we were partners," Bacon said angrily. "Are you welshing on me?" "No. I'm trying to keep our show from falling apart." "So am I. Either you're with me or agin' me. Make up your mind." "Damn it, Ned. This is no time for Civil War. We're sitting on a blast right now." "You gutless Summer Soldier!" "Will you listen! The show's in a jam. We're all in a jam. We're being threatened. It's going to hit the fan next Sunday. I came here to get the name of that detective friend of yours over at the Precinct Station." Bacon's face lost its rage and kindled. "Oh? Threats? What kind? Extortion? Blackmail? Is it one of the Heavies or a Con? I know all the rackets, Jake. That's my business. Why the hell didn't you tell me?" "I'm telling you now." "What rumbled? Who blew the gaff?" "We can't discuss it here. I'll see you later and let you have everything. What's the name of the detective?" "Fink. Sergeant Robert Fink. Tell him Ned Bacon sent you. Ned Bacon from...." He paused for a soundless fanfare. "'The People Against--.'" "Right." Bacon escorted him to the studio door. "Tell Bob to take you out on the case. Meet the people, Jake, People are your business. Get a load of life. Break out of that Ivory Tower. Rub elbows with the marketplace." Lennox looked at him contemptuously. "You love this, don't you, Ned? Threats.... Rackets.... Crooks.... The spittoon life." "It's people, Jake. It's life. It's my business." "I like my life just the way it is," Lennox said. "That's why I'm going to see your detective ... for salvation, not masturbation." Bacon flushed angrily. "You're never the genial type, Jake, but there's times when you fill me with death wishes." "Be seeing you, Scarface." Lennox exchanged a level glance of loathing with his partner and left the studio. "Salvation!" he repeated emphatically. "Yes, by God! Now we know where we're going." CHAPTER V "I've got to look into a butcher store," Fink said. "Drive over with me. You can tell me about those letters." They got into a dusty car parked in front of the Precinct Station. Fink was a small, slender man with thin blonde hair and the harmless manner of a bank clerk. He had a soft sweet voice. He seemed shy. His smile was hesitant and haphazard, as though he acknowledged humor but had given up hope of ever recognizing it. "Shopping for dinner?" Lennox asked. "No. The Health Department had a complaint this butcher is selling bad meat. They couldn't find anything so they handed it to us. You can tell me about those letters." Lennox told him. Fink drove carefully and listened without comment. Finally he shook his head. "Tough," he said. "You mean dangerous?" "Tough to locate the writer." "Are the letters dangerous?" "Everything's dangerous." "That isn't much help. I'm scared."