"Rifkin ain't in trouble; his
creditors is in trouble, Mr. Potash. The Federal Textile Company, ten
thousand four hundred and eighty-two dollars; Miller, Field & Simpson,
three thousand dollars; the Kosciusko Bank, two thousand and fifty."
Abe whistled his astonishment.
"I always thought he done it such a fine business," he commented.
"Sure he done it a fine business," the law clerk said. "I should say he
did done it a fine business. If he got away with a cent he got away with
fifty thousand dollars."
"Don't nobody know where he skipped to?"
"Only his wife," Feinstein replied, "and she left home yesterday. Some
says she went to Canada and some says to Mexico; but they mostly goes to
Brooklyn, and who in blazes could find her there?"
Abe nodded solemnly.
"But come inside and give a look around," Feinstein said hospitably.
"Maybe there's something you would like to buy at the receiver's sale
next week."
Abe handed Feinstein a cigar, and together they went into Rifkin's loft.
"He's got some fine fixtures, ain't it?" Abe said as he gazed upon the
mahogany and plate-glass furnishings of Rifkin's office.
"Sure he has," Feinstein replied nonchalantly, scratching a parlor match
on the veneered shelf under the cashier's window. The first attempt
missed fire, and again he drew a match across the lower part of the
partition, leaving a great scar on its polished surface.
"Ain't you afraid you spoil them fixtures?" Abe asked.
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