Salvatore Martingale took his seat before the shoe shine indifferently. He retrieved his tri-folded paper from beneath his arm and perused the front page. The headline didn?t grab him. They didn?t have any business in the Market--at least none that the Bosses-Up-High had deigned to inform him about. That suited him well enough. His hands were full with the Sands. No reason to dig up more trouble. At least not until money was involved. Money had a way of changing everything.

?I hears the Layin? the Odds is set to fly with that Graziano kid," The man in the seat beside him stated with a leading tone, trying to coax information from the auburn-haired Opportunist with what he hoped was casual ease.

Sal shook out his paper. It crinkled beneath his fingers. The rustle was swallowed by the ebb and flow of sound around the shoe shine stand. Licking his thumb, Sal pried the pages apart. Everyone had a guilty pleasure. One of his was reading the wild rumors that circulated through the City, some of which were interesting enough to get published. He was a sinner at heart, but they didn?t all have to be burning-forever-in-Hell sorts.

?Nah, I heard they was grounding that pigeon," The shoe shine before his temporary companion snorted as he whipped his cloth across the tip of the stranger?s boot, ??sides who?d put any money out on Graziano? The bug can?t ride worth not?in?, but that one dame?,? the shoe shine?s voice faded off as he snapped his fingers, trying to trigger his memory and give voice to the name that tickled the tip of his tongue.

Sal?s blue-eyed gaze peered over the sagging top of his paper to regard his own footwear. The toes were scuffed, but not scarred. He couldn?t afford to appear ill-kept. A man?s shoes said volumes to some. So did his nails, and Sal?s were neatly manicured. The rim of his dove gray fedora shadowed his expression. Sal enjoyed the conversation. Speculation was good for business. It didn?t hurt any for him to join in. ?If,? Sal began as he turned a page to skim the classifieds, ?I was a betting man--which I am--I?d put my money on that Honey bird or maybe the Streak.? He watched his own shine boy getting to hurt, buffing the leather back to a lustrous shimmer. ?Lucky names,? Sal added when the man beside him cast him an inquiring look. ?But if you really want to know the odds, and make a safe bet, you should hunt up Vinnie.?

Of course, it was going to cost him, but Salvatore didn?t see a reason to tell him so. If he was worth his salt, he?d know already. Information--good information--didn?t come cheap. They were in it for profit. Anyone that thought different was touched in the brain pan. Sal folded his paper and tucked it back under his arm. Idly, he flicked his fingers against the rim of his hat. It sat up at a jaunty angle.

?Thanks for the tip,? the man beside Sal replied. It wasn?t much of a tip. They both knew it.

?Don?t mention it,? Sal answered, and he really hoped he wouldn?t.