At about noon, Henry woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. As he shuffled across his apartment to stop the shrill clanging, he thought how he paid Ma Bell four bucks a month for the privilege of having his sleep ruined by this thing, and maybe he should reconsider the relationship. He picked up the receiver. “Yeah?” “Henry Frederickson?” It was a male voice—very awake. “Who is this?” Henry asked. “This Frederickson?” “No.” “Yeah it is, gambler. We need you to come down to Eighth Ward Police Station. Ask for Finch.” “I don’t want to,” Henry said, but

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