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ramp leading into Joe Tonnelli’s private underground garage and elevator.
    The steel door rolled up and the Caddie’s headlamps spat light into the ramp’s inky mouth. Shadows darted and leaped as the Caddie crooned down the ramp and into the tunnel. He drove into the brightly lit garage and parked.
    Two guards in shirtsleeves waved from their gin rummy on the rear seat of a Tonelli limousine. He went across the concrete to the self-service elevator in the rear of the garage and glanced up at the bulletproof dome jutting out above the elevator and nodded to the machine gunner, who waved.
    He reached to punch the “up” button. The cage opened, and out stepped Lieutenant Paul Porta. He was commander of the special gang squad headquartered at Eleventh Street Central Station.
    The chunky cop shook Collucci’s hand warmly and said, “Maybe you’re lucky I preceded you up there.”
    Collucci said, “Why, Paul?”
    Porta said, “A half-hour ago, Taylor’s Warriors hit Mullins’ policy bank check-in station and safe for seventy-five grand.”
    Collucci said, “Uh-uh, maybe I better go up another time.”
    Porta leaned close and said seriously, “Jimmy, I think I’ve finallydone it. In fact, I am almost certain that within twenty-four hours I will have a dependable undercover agent infiltrated into Tit for Tat Taylor’s Warriors. I will learn all the secrets of their tunnel and defense systems they have under their so-called Free Zone. Arrangements are being made to impeach and force that spade governor out of office. Our man goes in and the National Guard will crush the Warriors.”
    Collucci said, “Is how you planted the pigeon classified?”
    Porta laughed and said, “Jimmy, if you’re going to tip them off, it is. It wasn’t difficult really. A black con just released from Joliet Penitentiary has a Warrior pal out here who had been his cell mate. I filed a detainer warrant for stickup, murder against him on his release date. He agreed to help me bust up the Warriors. I arranged to have the beef withdrawn, with privilege to reinstate against him at any time, of course.”
    Collucci banged him on the shoulder and said, “Congratulations, Paul. And good luck!”
    They shook hands.
    Just before they parted, Collucci said, “Paul, your agent anybody I know?”
    Porta said, “I doubt it. He’s just an ordinary young spade whose street moniker is Rapping Roscoe. He’s full of shit alright, but I’ve got him, as they say down in Texas, between a rock and a hard place.”
    They laughed together, and Collucci stepped into the elevator.
    And on the far Southside, Rapping Roscoe rode in a battered black Pontiac with his ex-cell mate, Bumpy Lewis, and several other Warriors that Roscoe did not know were Warriors. They all were observing him closely for his fitness to become a Warrior.

6
    T he drama for Rapping Roscoe and the occupants of the battered black Pontiac started to unfold when Lotsa Black Hayes, the massive driver, glanced up at the rearview mirror and said raggedly, “Ivory, we got two black rollers on our ass.”
    Ivory Jones, the squad leader, leaned forward toward Dew Drop Allen, the tiny white Warrior on the front seat beside the driver, and said casually, “Drop, you know what to do and when if necessary.”
    Dew Drop nodded, and Ivory said, “Lotsa, do the thing now.”
    Lotsa Black stomped on the gas pedal. The finely tuned race-car engine booted the Pontiac forward with a roar. Rapping Roscoe, Lieutenant Porta’s tool, turned jerkily and looked through the rear window at the fading headlamps of the blue Plymouth sedan.
    Bumpy Lewis glanced at Roscoe and said, “Roscoe, be cool, my man. Ain’t no reason now to keep it from you. You are with members of them bad muthafuckuhs, Warriors For Willie Poe. Them black rollers back there are lucky they ain’t gonna