cried the dame they called Trixie. “Hey, Sarge. That you? Yeah! Over here.” Sarge ambled over. Reluctantly. “What is it this time, Trixie?” “It’s Moose and that bunch.” Sarge let out a long sigh. “Moose Murphy?” “Yeah, yeah. Murphy. Him and his trouble boys have been bothering that old guy, you know, the mug with the missing leg—Lucky they call him. Lucky Rabinowitz. You know Lucky, right?” “Yeah, I know him. What’s Lucky doin’ out here? I told him last weekend, certain stretches of this park are too shady for an old-timer like him to be nosin’ around in.” “Hey, leg or no leg, the guy has his pride. We used to run together, Lucky and me.” Sarge wasn’t surprised. Trixie was the kind of dame who would run with just about anybody, even if they didn’t have enough limbs to really run anymore. “Come on, Sarge. You know Lucky Rabinowitz still has his pride. He ain’t gonna tuck his tail and sulk home just on your say-so.” “Then tell him, for his own good, to keep far away from Moose Murphy.
