"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 047 - The Black Falcon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

The comment came from an onlooker as "Rowdy" Kirshing passed. It was whispered; and it brought a
low answer from another bystander:

"Yeah-and that fellow with him is no softy. That's Pinkey Sardon, his bodyguard."

The man to whom attention had been directed was following close at Rowdy Kirshing's heels. Like his
master, "Pinkey" was attired in a tuxedo. He, too, was the possessor of an evil face. A squat,
broad-shouldered ruffian, Pinkey Sardon had risen from the ranks of ordinary gorillas to serve as
bodyguard to the most notorious racketeer in New York.

Rowdy Kirshing paid no attention to the throng of persons who observed his exit from the Club Madrid.
He left that to his trusted follower, Pinkey Sardon. The bodyguard, glaring from left to right, kept one
hand menacingly in his side pocket, while his chief entered the limousine. With Rowdy Kirshing safely in
the car, Pinkey sprang in behind him. The chauffeur slammed the door and clambered to the driver's seat.
The wheeled leviathan pulled away from the curb, leaving the gaping spectators on the sidewalk.

"Plenty of gawks in New York," observed Pinkey, with a gruff laugh. "They stand around like a bunch of
hicks. Everywhere you go there's a pile of mugs looking on."

"Lucky for you there is," growled Rowdy. "If those mugs weren't around, I wouldn't carry a bodyguard.
It's just the chance that there might be some sharpshooter pretending that he was one of the goofs. That's
why you've got your job, Pinkey."

"Don't I know it?" The bodyguard laughed. "Say, Rowdy, there's no guy tough enough to take a plug at
you in the open. I know why I'm working for you. I keep my eye out for snipers. They know it wouldn't
do them no good to take a pot-shot at you."

Rowdy Kirshing nodded in reply. He was reaching for the speaking phone that communicated with the
front seat. He uttered words to the chauffeur:

"Tenth Avenue, Danny."

PINKEY SARDON grinned as he heard his chief's order. He knew the spot on Tenth Avenue where
Rowdy Kirshing was going. The king of racketeers was headed for one of gangdom's strongholds-a
place where bodyguards were not needed. This would mean a night off for Pinkey Sardon.

Rowdy Kirshing was evidently holding the same thought. From a side pocket the big shot brought out a
massive roll of bills. He peeled off ten, each note of a hundred-dollar denomination. "One grand, Pinkey,"
stated Rowdy, as be thrust the money into his bodyguard's hand. "That's for the week. And here"-the big
shot was counting off five more bills as he spoke-"is some extra change for a present."

"Half a grand!" Pinkey whistled. "Thanks, Rowdy! Say-it's knocked me goofy, the way you've been
slinging the dough the past week. You gave each of those chorines a century at the Club Madrid
to-night-"

"There's plenty more where this came from," growled Rowdy, in a tone that stopped Pinkey short. "I
don't have to look for the mazuma. It comes to me."

"I know that," agreed Pinkey. "But with the way some of the rackets have been taking it on the chin-"
"I've got others up my sleeve."