"And if he ain't?"

"Don't come back!"

Moe eyed Jimmy Holden. "Make it good--Jimmy." There was malice in Moe's
face.

Jake looked down at Jimmy Holden. With precisely the same experienced
technique he used to estimate the value of a car loaded with road dirt,
rust, and collision-smashed fenders, Jake stripped the child of the
dirty clothing, the scuffed shoes, the mussed hair, and saw through to
the value beneath. Its price was one thousand dollars, offered with no
questions asked for information that would lead to the return of one
James Quincy Holden to his legal guardian.

It wasn't magic on Jake's part. Paul Brennan had instantly offered a
reward. And Jake made it his business to keep aware of such matters.

How soon, wondered Jake, might the ante be raised to two Gee? Five? And
in the meantime, if things panned, Jimmy could be useful as a spotter.

"You afraid of that Moe punk, Jimmy?"

"No sir."

"Good, but keep an eye on him. He'd sell his mother for fifty cents clear
profit--seventy-five if he had to split the deal. Now, kid, do you know
anything about spotting?"

"No sir."