Collins set down the newspaper and scowled at his servant. "You're not helping my paranoia, Rigby." Then the detective fished from his jacket pocket a silver cigarette case, opened it, grabbed one of its contents and stuffed the cigarette into his mouth. A moment later a teasing grin spread his handsome face. "If this country goes to war Parasha and I will be in real a pickle." "I fail to see why," Rigby snorted, as he signed a check. "You'd coddle your disreputable cat to the enth degree, war or not." "Actually, I was thinking about you." "Me?" "Someone has to represent the Collins household in the front-lines," returned the detective, with mock insistence. "We don't want to be considered shirkers. Why, I'd be banned from the Stuyvesant Club." Rigby jerked upright, suddenly alarmed. "I should think it would be far more appropriate for you to volunteer if the worst happened!" "I can't do that," Collins protested, one amused eye on his agitated servant. "Why not?" "I'm much too rich to die in some sordid gun-battle with a Schnitzel chewing maniac. It's far more appropriate for a man like me to pass-on in one of those bordellos you've been complaining about." The detective took out a small gold lighter, flicked it to life and put flame to the cigarette; his eyes twinkling. "I'm afraid you'll have to fight the Bosch, Rigby." "Your concern for my future is touching, Sir," the butler returned, dryly. Then with a flurry of mutterings he resumed his work. "Which brings me back to my original concern: with you wielding a bayonet in Europe, gutting the Hun, who's going to steam Parasha's oysters, and prepare my Manhattans?" "I'm sure I don't know, Sir," the butler gritted. The detective picked up the newspaper and flipped a page, laughing softly at Rigby's irritation. Then his eyes narrowed. "Guess who's looking down the barrel of an indictment, if John Theobald has his way?" The butler leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes focusing upon his master. "How many times have I warned you against gambling with Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky?" "Not me." Collins wrinkled his nose as if a foul odor had suddenly filled the room. "Luciano. According to this article a new racketeering law is up for a vote. It'll give the State of New York extensive and very liberal powers to control organized crime." "How often have we heard that before?" mocked the servant, tilting forward to fill-out another check. "Now, now give Theobald his due. Our District Attorney for New York County is an honest public servant." "I'm not faulting Mr. Theobald's intentions, Sir. But you must admit there is a lot to be desired when it comes to the success of his actions. He's arrested Luciano a dozen times or more - with nothing coming of it." Harper Collins blew a smoke ring, watched it float above his servant's head and uncoil into frail wisps. "Luciano is a slick operator, Rigby." "If you want my opinion, a bounty should be put on that gangster's head." "And let just anyone take potshots at a poor, Sicilian immigrant? Nonsense!" The detective forced a stoic expression as he turned his head to meet his servant's shocked stare. "The city would become a blood-bath. There'd be dead Luciano look-alikes everywhere. Lasagna could become a thing of the past." "Well, something has to be done! Luciano's even suspected of killing Thelma Beale." "If there were any proof in that, I'm sure Lucky would've been arrested." "As you said, Sir, he's a slick operator." "Not in a poker game. I've fleeced him and Lansky numerous times." "That's because you cheat."