Shield for Murder

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The man Nolan planned to kill came out of an all-night taproom about one o’clock in the morning. He stood for a moment, taking a few last drags from his cigarette, and glancing idly across the wet, gleaming street. His name was Dave Fiest, and he was a gambler; not the biggest in Philadelphia, but far from the smallest.

Nolan watched him from the shadow of a building entrance about twenty yards away. His hands were deep in the pockets of his suit coat and there was a dead cigar in his mouth.

Dave Fiest flipped his cigarette away and strolled south on Broad Street, the collar of his camel’s hair sport coat turned up against the fine misting rain that was falling.

Nolan spat the cigar from his mouth and moved out from the shadow of the building, traveling fast for a man his size, and came up behind Fiest at the corner of Crab Street.

“Hold it a second, Dave,” he said.

Dave Fiest turned and regarded Nolan with surprise. “What’s up, Barny?”

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