This wasn't like anything she knew or anything she could have expected. This wasn't like after the rumble, with the guys wisecracking the cops, and nothing to worry about but a chewing-out from Mom. This was scary. They were taking people out one at a time to question them. And nobody was coming back into the room, and who knew what happened to you when it was your turn?

"Come on," said the cop. "Step along."

She stepped along, numb and miserable.

There were four men in the room to which she was led. They were sitting behind a long table, with notebooks and pencils and ashtrays on the table. In front of them was a straight-backed armless chair. The cop sat her down in the chair, and left the room.

One of the men said, "Your name is Judy Canzanetti, is that right?"

"Yes, sir." It came out a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes, sir."

"You don't have to be frightened, Judy," said the man. "You aren't going to be accused of anything. My name is Marshall, Stephen Marshall. This gentleman on my right is Stewart Lang. We're with the FBI. That gentleman there is Mr. Stevenson, and he's a detective from Brooklyn. And that there is Mr. Roberts, and he's a reporter. And we all simply want to ask you one or two questions. All right?"

The man was obviously trying to calm her down, make her relax. And he succeeded to some extent. Judy said, "Yes, sir," in a small voice and nodded, no longer quite so frightened.

None of the four men were particularly frightening in appearance. The two FBI men were long and lean, with bleak bony faces like cowboys. The detective was a short worried-looking man with a paunch and thinning black hair. And the reporter was a cheerful round-faced man in a loud sport coat and a bow tie.

"Now," said Marshall, "you were present at the time of the gang fight on Hallowe'en, is that right?"

"Yes, sir. Well, no, sir. Not exactly. I was down at the corner."

Mister Marshall smiled briefly. "On lookout?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

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