you cats never sleep?”
“What’ve you got for me?”
“You make a guy going by Skippy Randolph?”
“Not off the bat. Who is he?”
“He’s recently from Chi, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a record here, too. He’s been mugging.”
“You sure?”
“Straight goods. You want to meet him?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s gonna be a little cube rolling tonight. Randolph’ll be there. You can rub elbows.”
“Where?”
“I’ll take you,” Donner said. He paused. “Steam baths cost, you know.”
“Let me check him out first,” Willis said. “He may not be worth meeting. You sure he’ll be at this craps game?”
“Posilutely, dad.”
“I’ll call you back later. Can I reach you at this number?”
“Until eleven. I’ll be at the baths after that.”
Willis looked at the name he’d written on his pad. “Skippy Randolph. His own moniker?”
“The Randolph is. I’m not so sure about the Skippy.”
“But you’re sure he’s mugging?”
“Absotively,” Donner said.
“Okay, I’ll call you back.” Willis replaced the receiver, thought for a moment, and then dialed the Bureau of Criminal Identification.
Miscolo, one of the patrolmen from Clerical came into the office and said, “Hey, Hal, you want some coffee?”
“Yes,” Willis said, and then he told the IB what he wanted.
The Bureau of Criminal Identification was located at Headquarters, downtown on High Street. It was open twenty-four hours a day, and its sole reason for existence was the collection and compilation and cataloguing of any and all information descriptive of criminals. The IB maintained a Fingerprint File, a Criminal Index File, a Wanted File, a Degenerate File, a Parolee File, a Released Prisoner File, a Known Gamblers, Known Rapists, Known Muggers, Known Any-and-All Kinds of Criminal Files. Its Modus Operandi File contained more than 80,000 photographs of known criminals. And since all persons charged with and convicted of a crime are photographed and fingerprinted as specified by law, the file was continually growing and continually being brought up to date. Since the IB received and classified some 206,000 sets of prints yearly, and since it answered requests for some 250,000 criminal records from departments all over the country, Willis’s request was a fairly simple one to answer, and they delivered their package to him within the hour. The first photostatted item Willis dug out of the envelope was Randolph’s fingerprint card.
Willis looked at this rapidly. The fingerprints were worthless to him at this stage of the game. He reached into the envelope and pulled out the next item, a photostatted copy of the back of Randolph’s fingerprint card.
Willis looked through the other items in the envelope. There was a card stating that Randolph had been released from Baily’s after eight months of good behavior on May 2, 1950. He had notified his parole officer that he wished to return to Chicago, the city in which he was born, the city he should have returned to as soon as he’d been discharged from the Marine Corps. Permission had been granted, and he’d left the city for Chicago on June 5, 1950. There was a written report from the Chicago parole office to which Randolph’s records had been transferred. Apparently, he had in no way violated his parole.
Willis thumbed through the material and came up with a transcript of Randolph’s Marine Corps record. He had enlisted on December 8, the day after Pearl Harbor. He was twenty-three years old at the time, almost twenty-four. He had risen to the rank of corporal, had taken part in the landings at Iwo Jima and Okinawa, and had personally been responsible for the untimely demise of fifty-four Japanese soldiers. On June 17, 1945, he was wounded in the leg during a Sixth Marine Division attack against the town of Mezado. He had been sent back for hospitalization on Pearl, and after convalescence, he was sent to San Francisco, where he was honorably discharged.
And, four years later, he mugged a fifty-three-year-old man and tried to take his wallet.
And now, according to Donner, he was back in the city—and mugging again.
Willis looked at his watch and then dialed Donner’s number.
“Hello?” Donner asked.
“This craps game tonight,” Willis said. “Set it up.”
The crap game in question was of the floating variety, and on this particular Thursday night, it was being held in a warehouse close to the River Highway. Willis, in keeping with the festive spirit of the occasion, wore a sport shirt patterned with horses’ heads and a sport jacket. When he met Donner, he almost didn’t recognize him. Somehow, the flabby quivering pile of white flesh that sucked in steam at the Turkish baths managed to acquire stature and even