Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 77, No. 4. Whole No. 451, March 25, 1981

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“Hanley, younger but still not young, had flat, dangerous eyes and no conscience. Dwyer, older, seasoned by years behind prison walls, had the look of a fox in its own forest.” Dwyer was the top con in the precisely structured social strata of the prison — the man to go to for such indispensables as a forged pass...

Max Hanley made his way slowly across the big prison yard, walking around groups of blue-clad men who were congregating to play dominoes or lift weights or dope out next Sunday’s football parlays or just rap about their latest never-ending gripes. He moved gradually over to the bleachers, lighting a cigarette as he went. The man he wanted to see was sitting alone on a low bleacher bench and reading a newspaper. He was an older con, in his late fifties, a lifer; he wore bifocals under a gray receding hairline.

“Frank Dwyer?” Hanley said, sitting down beside him.

“That’s me,” the old con replied, glancing at his visitor, then resuming his reading.

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