Chapter Twelve
By rote, U. S. Deputy Marshal Linda Rankin reaches to pat her Glock 22. The reflex allays concern. Though armed, the establishment brings discomfort. She expected to rendezvous in some off beat location, but not the dregs of the South Bronx.
What pitiful characters frequent this place?
‘Max’s Palace’, is far from an abode for royalty. Every inch of wood, every scrap of furniture is worn and stained. The strong scent of harsh cleaning fluids barely masks evidence of the prior evening’s escapades. Linda wonders if anyone really drinks in the place, probably the only legal activity.
It’s empty, so she believes. Then her eyes catch a waft of cigarette smoke rising from a far off booth. Such irony... smoking having been banned in New York for many years. Is there any illicit
