“We know,” Reardon said, pleased for once to be ahead of Porky. “Little Harry told us all about it. The mob arranged the incoming package, via Patrone. Morrison knew about it, naturally, and decided — when he heard the courier was in jail — on a nice little hijack scheme, all on his own. My guess is that both Morrison and Wittwer will pray for a long, long sentence. There’ll be people waiting for them when they get out.”
“If they wait,” Porky said. “I hear they’re a restless bunch, at times. I imagine that Morrison heard the courier was in jail by reading the papers?”
“That’s right. There was a squib about it. And if it makes you any happier, that column ‘View from Nob Hill’ did mention that I was in charge of the dinner. And Morrison knew me from the few times he’d seen my picture in the papers. I gather he preferred to deal with a known element.”
“Like a policeman who puts things off to the last minute,” Porky said. “Well, I’m glad you finally got around to looking up that columnist. You see? Listen to the old pro and you’ll never go wrong. That, Mr. R, will cost you.”
“And that, Mr. P, is worth it,” Reardon said, smiling. Why tell Porky the way Mr. Maxwell and his organization helped was not exactly the way Porky imagined? “Now, go back to your game, and good luck.”
“Thank you,” Porky said, and hung up. He stood staring at the telephone for a moment and then walked slowly back to the pool table. Sawicki looked up in all innocence.
“You got to go away, Porky?” he asked, barely able to hide the welling hope in his gravelly voice.
Porky smiled at him in gentle fashion and retrieved his cue from the adjoining table.
“Not tonight, Josephine,” he said, and bent over the rail to make his first shot.