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Jack looked at his watch. It was two thirty in the afternoon. "What time did he say he'd be here? "I told you, Jack, two twenty. "Well, he's late. I'll wait another ten minutes, then I'm leavin'. I still haven't eaten lunch. "Hold on, replied Detective Gray. "I think I see him. Yeah that's him, look at the third elevator from the left. Remember his photo? "Yeah, I remember. Keep your eye on him. You can bet he's packin'. They all do. Detectives Jack Carter and Jim Gray watched as the informant they were supposed to meet that day walked toward them and started his way down a long flight of steps to where they were standing. As the man came closer, the detectives could tell that he was very slight of stature at about five-foot seven inches tall. Judging from the reputation this gangster had, Jack expected someone much bigger than the person walking toward them. Can't judge a book by its cover, I guess, thought Jack, as he focused more now on the man's face. The closer Louie Ancona got, the more prevalent a large knife scar became. It was once a very deep wound on the left side of his face, that ran from underneath his eye down under his chin. A wide fissure of scar tissue that the awful cut left behind told its terrible story, as the gash tried in vain to close and heal, but the bearer of this wound seemed to wear it proudly. "I wonder what the other guy looked like? whispered Jack to his partner. "He's dead, came a faint reply.