Chapter 20

I could hear the pounding sound continuing to beat a steady rhythm, but I honestly couldn't tell

anymore if it was the sound of my feet against the pavement or my heart about to burst out of my

chest. There is being on the run, which is lousy, and then there is really running for your life,

which is much, much worse. It hadn't started out like this.

I had a line on a guy who had known Owen Grant back in the day, a guy named Mitchell, who had

been in the business with Grant, had been his chief Toadie, in fact. He had done some time himself,

nothing as heavy as Grant, but enough to discourage a fellow's entrepreneurial spirit.

He just didn't have the head for business that his old boss had.

And with Grant away for the long haul, he made the wise choice to learn himself a trade.

Freddy swore on a stack that as far as any of his associates knew, Mitchell was mostly

legit these days, but mostly legit, and all legit, were two vastly different things.

And it wouldn't have taken much of a push to send Herbert Mitchell back to the old ways

for fun and profit. If granted called, he'd have answered. I was still pretty sure of that.

The city directory had nothing on Mitchell beyond a disconnected number and an address in the

north quarter with a four rent sign on the lawn that looked like it had been up for a year or more.

So once again, Frederick the reluctant was set to task, and had come back with the information

that Herbert Mitchell worked in a repair shop on St. Paul Street past Braxton.

That whole neighborhood was a warrant of narrow streets and alleys that went nowhere, and it was

pretty far off the beaten path, which was just as well, since I was going to have to risk a trip out

in daylight. The man who answered the telephone at the San Polo Fixit shop was not Mitchell,

unless Mitchell had unexpectedly acquired a thick Italian accent somewhere, which seemed unlikely.

...