"Mugg?" Ken had laughed. "Muggsy-wuggsy doorman. How cute!"
But Rocco, leading the way downstairs, was anything but cute. He was imposing. Two guns, probably. Maybe three. What fun, eh kid?
Downstairs was an elongated room, designed somewhat after an enlarged bowling-alley, thought the very drunk Ken. And muggs—exquisite muggs—beautiful hard-boiled muggs.
"Hello, Percy," he hailed a heavy-jowled mugg who scowled as he passed.
"Grin, Pietro," said Rocco; and Pietro grinned.
To another, short, wizened, bald, Ken delivered a determined chuck under the chin. The little mugg snapped out of his seat. Rocco spattered orders in Italian with the rapidity of machine-gun fire, and the gnome settled back uneasily into his seat.
At the piano a square-thumbed square-hair-cut barked: "What d'ye want? The Saint Louis Blues?"
Rocco was polite. "They wait for you. After you finish, you eat if you want."
"I don't want to eat," Ken said. "But who are these boys?"
"My gang," said Rocco, with a sombre note of pride in his voice. Ken forced his drooping eyes open. Around a circular table sat Rocco's gang, fifteen delectably human morsels, as Ken said to himself. Then he looked again. Eyes focussed upon him, he looked into eyes, amused, friendly.
"Boys," said Rocco, "I got him. You watch now." He turned to the piano player. "Give him that piece from 'Sweeter Than Sweet.'"
The piano player snapped into it. He played three chor-
