THE BOYS booked me into the Market Street jail . . . suspicion of assault and battery . . . stripped me of my valuables, left me in the tank with the drunks and vags. They didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t volunteer any answers.
I figured I was in for the night, but thirty minutes later the detective team of Walter Comfrey and Dave Birch called me into the corridor. Out of a complaining, dyspeptic face Birch yapped:
“Why the hell can’t you pull your capers by daylight and leave us have a decent eight hours on the hay?”
“You mean you birds were at home, and you got called downtown on account of me?”
“Those are Hoke’s standing orders. Any time you’re picked up, we go on the job.”
“Sorry,” I sneered. “I don’t know why I should rate all this special service.”
Comfrey was more the clean-
