On the street, Harry saw a kid, not more than eighteen, move out of the alley and into the pool of light cast by a street lamp.
He wore a ragged gray topcoat and—oddly—unfastened rubber snow boots.
Behind him, two other muggers, about the first kid’s age, maybe younger, slinked along the closed-up shops toward Harry—who waited for them, in his 1940s fedora, his open trench coat and open suit jacket, revealing his suspenders, looking quaint, ineffective against their unromantic poverty.
“Spare change,” the First Mugger said.
He circled Harry, blocking any retreat toward the newsstand.
“Someone stole our condo,” the Second Mugger said.
The second and third muggers blocked any advance toward the theater.
“Nice hat,” the Third Mugger said.
“I wish I had a hat like that,” the First Mugger said.
“Who sent you?” Harry asked.
“Huh?” the First Mugger said.
“Which mob?” Harry asked.
“Mob?” the Third Mugger asked.
“He thinks we’re part of a mob,” the Second Mugger said.
“A mob…,” the First Mugger said, trying out the idea.
He stood up straighter—flattered.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what we are.”
“A mob?” the Third Mugger asked.
“Okay, Pops,” the First Mugger said, “empty your pockets.”
With Bogart’s aplomb, Harry flicked his cigarette at the first mugger’s feet.
“Tell your boss,” Harry said, “he wants to talk to me, he can make an appointment.”
“The man asked you for some spare change,” the Second Mugger said.
The first mugger took out a knife.
Harry said, “All I got in my pocket is—”
Harry pulled his gun.
“Oh, shit,” the Third Mugger said.