Michael Storme

SYNOPSIS I'M SITTING in Matt's cafe, see, when I note this big guy sliding up to my table, and I'm pretty curious because he has his hand dug deep in his sport coat pocket as though fondling a gun. A tremor up my spinal column seta my nerves on edge. I've an idea this hoodlum's face is familiar; but I can't remember where I saw it last. With a gesture meant to convince me that the action is natural-like, this guy plunks himself down on the chair opposite me; but the way in which he hauls out a gun an' points it at me isn't meant for anything else but a threat. Almost in the same movement this overgrown ape covers his shooter with a dirty, silk handkerchief. Then he smiles real nasty-like.