Invitation to Violence by Lionel White

than she wanted Vince to escape the justice she realized he fully deserved.
        There was only one thing to do. Vince would be too smart to try and reach her at the apartment. He would know by now that the police were seeking him. No, if he tried at all, it would be while she was working at the cafeteria. That was the place, the key to the whole thing. It had been through the hangers-on at the place that Vince had met his new companions, met the men who had involved him. And it was there that he'd try and reach her.
        Tired and sick as she was, she was determined to go to the place as usual that night to work. That night and every night. And sooner or later some man would come up to the counter and whisper a word or two and she would know where he was and be able to reach him. Be able to learn what she had to find out.
        She had no more than climbed into the uniform she wore when the manager of the place came over and spoke to her.
        "Mr. Slaughter is in his office," the man said. "He'd like to have a few words with you. I'll take the cash box while you're gone."
        He watched her coldly for a moment as she turned to leave the counter.
        "You could have at least called and told us you weren't coming in last night," he said, his voice resentful.
        Sue felt a sudden sense of relief as she walked to the back of the long building where Slaughter maintained a small private office. Her first thought, when the manager had spoken to her, was that Slaughter must somehow or other have learned about Vince. That he, like the police, would start the series of incessant questions.
        But no, it wasn't that. She'd been absent Saturday night and had failed to notify the restaurant. That was what he wanted her for. He'd be sore about it and she'd have to give him some sort of story. She didn't want to tell him the reason she hadn't called was because she was in the police station being questioned about her brother-who was wanted for murder.
        If he had paid slightly less for his clothes, and purchased them in either good department stores or from tailors on the east side of Fifth Avenue, Fred Slaughter might very easily have passed for a gentleman. As it was, the handmade shirts were just a trifle too sheer, the gray-worsted suit was cut a trifle too wide in the shoulders and the shoes, although imported and expensive, were not the type to be worn with a business suit.
        His clothes were like his jewelry. The watch should have been gold rather than platinum and like the cuff links and rings which he wore on each hand, there was just too much of it. The clothes were like the man; a little too good and a little too ostentatious.
        In his late forties, Slaughter had the figure of a college athlete. He took exceptionally good care of himself, visiting his barber daily for a shave and a trim as well as a manicure. His dark hair was always perfectly groomed and no matter what time of the day or night, there was always the faint trace of after-shaving powder on his lean, olive jaw.
        His manners, at least in public, were polished. But the giveaway was the voice. He had a voice like gravel and even his over-precision in the choice of words and phrases merely served to emphasize the effort he made to sound like a gentleman.
        Any smart cop would have spotted his background in a second. Slaughter was strictly East Side scum; a one-time mobster who'd made money fast and ostensibly turned legitimate. He didn't actually fool anybody and certainly he didn't fool the riffraff with whom he hung out and whom he patronized.
        His sharp eyes looked up as Sue entered the office and he smiled thinly.
        "Close the door, Sue," he said. "Close the door and come on in and sit down. I want to talk with you."
        Sue took the chair next to the desk.
        "If it's about last night…" she began.
        He nodded and half raised a hand to interrupt