Falch’s hand and studied it, grinning with satisfaction.

“Came out perfect, the whole batch of ’em. Used infra-red film and a fast shutter. Just stood in the closet and snapped ’em off. Didn’t need a drop of light.”

The boy laughed. “But I don’t need to explain all that to you, Mr. Falch. Hell, I bet you’re an old hand at this sort of thing!”

MURDER IS MY BUSINESS

I LIVE IN A POORLY FURNISHED ROOM a block off the Bowery. I used to live there because I couldn’t afford anything better. But times have changed. I live there now because I like it. It’s almost cozy, once you get used to it. The smells stop bothering you after the first week or so, and the people down there never bother anybody. The other tenants are upper-caste prostitutes. The winos are always drunk and the prostitutes are always available. I like the setup.

It’s also a good business location. I live in my room, and I run my business from the bar a few doors down the street. Some of my clients don’t like the neighborhood, but they manage to come here anyhow. They need me more than I need them. Business has been good this year.

I was sitting in the bar at my usual table in the back looking at a beer and watching it get warm. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I never drink before dinner. Eddie doesn’t like me to sit without drinking, so I usually buy a beer or two during the afternoon and watch it go flat. I was reading a book of Spanish poetry when she came in.

I knew right off she was a prospective client. Women like her don’t hang out in Skid Row bars. They were either kept in penthouses or married to Scarsdale millionaires. You could tell from one look at her.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, but that was a part of it. The women who live here have used up their best years on Eighth Avenue, and all the flavor has gone out of them. They all drank too much, and most of them have scars on their faces from men who drank too much. And they walk with a what-the-hell shuffle. The women on the Bowery aren’t beautiful, and this one was.

She had blond hair, and not the kind that comes out of a bottle. It was cut short, and curled around a very passable face. She was wearing a suit, but it couldn’t hide her body. It was a more than passable body.

But as I said, it was more than her beauty. She had class, and that is something which never winds its way to the Bowery. It’s something you can’t pin down, but it’s the visible difference between Nashua and the horse that pulls Benny’s peanut wagon. This babe had class.

She walked in as though she had every right to be there, and every eye in the place turned to her. They didn’t watch her for long, though. The people who hang out in Eddie’s Bar are only interested in wine, and a woman is something which just stirs up memories.

She looked around for a minute, and finally met my stare. She came over and I pointed to a chair. She sat down, and we stared at each other for a while.

“Are you the man?”

It was a hell of an opener, so I played it cool and asked her just what man she was talking about.

“The man who…does jobs for people.”

“That depends,” I said. “What kind of job?” I was enjoying this.

“Couldn’t we go someplace more private?”

I shook my head. “Nobody listens here,” I said. “And if they do, they won’t remember. And if they remember, they won’t care. So speak up.”

“A man told me you…killed people.” It was an effort for her to get the words out.

I asked her what man, and she described Al. That meant a quick ten percent for Al, and it also meant that the chick was an honest customer.

“Did he tell you my fee?”

“He said five hundred dollars.”

I nodded. “Do you have it?” This time she nodded. “Well,” I said, “whom do you want taken care of?”

“My husband,” she said. “He found out I was playing around and he’s cutting me out of his will.”

That was standard enough. “Okay,” I said. “When do you want the job done?”

“Is tonight too soon?”

“Tonight is fine,” I said. “Give me the address.” She did and it wasn’t Scarsdale, but Riverside Drive came to about