lant, and mobsters were gathering up their drunks,
and chasing the citizens back into their houses. Some of them were
wearing the forbidden guns, but it wouldn't matter on a day when no
police were on duty.

In the Ninth Precinct, the Planters were the biggest gang, and all the
others were temporarily enrolled under them. Here, there were less signs
of trouble. The joints had been better barricaded, and the looting had
been kept to a minimum.

The three got off. A scooter pulled up alongside them almost at once,
with a gun-carrying mobster riding it. "You mugs get the hell out
of--Oh, cops! Okay, better pin these on."

He handed out gaudy arm bands, and the three fastened them in place.
Nearly everyone else already had them showing. The Planters were moving
efficiently. They were grouped around the booths, and they had begun to
line up their men, putting them in position to begin voting at once.

Then the siren hooted again, a long, steady blast. The bunting in front
of the booths was pulled off, and the lines began to move. Izzy led the
way to the one at the rich end of their beat, and moved toward the head
of the line. "Cops," he said to the six mobsters who surrounded the
booth. "We got territory to cover."

A thumb indicated that they could go in. Murdoch remained outside, and
one of the thugs reached for him. Izzy cut him off. "Just a friend on
the way to his own route. Eleventh Precinct."

There were scowls, but they let it go. Then Gordon was in the little
booth. It seemed to be in order. There were the books of registration,
with a checker for Wayne, one for Nolan, and a third, supposedly
neutral, behind the plank that served as a desk. The Nolan man was
protesting.

"He's been dead for ten years. I know him. He's my uncle."

"There's a Mike Thaler registered, and this guy says he's Thaler," the
Wayne man said decisively. "He votes."

One of the Planters passed his gun to the inspector for the Wayne side.
The Nolan man gulped, and nodded. "Heh-heh, yes, just a mix-up. He's
registered, so he votes."

The next man Gordon recognized as being from one of the small shops on
his beat. The fellow's eyes were desperate, but he was forcing himself
to go through with it. "Murtagh," he said, and his voice broke on the
second syllable. "Owen Murtagh."

"Murtang.... No registration!" The Wayne checker shrugged. "Next!"

"It's Murtagh. M-U-R-T-A-G-H. Owen Murtagh, of 738 Morrisy--"

"Protest!" The Wayne man cu