Into a drawing room on an outbound train at Manhattan's 125th Street station was carried a case of Golden Wedding rye whiskey, one day last week." But it was not a Senator or a Governor or even a Mayor who was leaving town for a pleas ure jaunt. It was New York's nervous, hollow-eyed, pasty-faced little racketeer, Jack ("Legs") Diamond. He was going home to the Catskill Mountains. Dressed in a flashy coat, grey spats and a checked cap, carrying two novels (Jury of Death, Super-City), he had just been released from a city...
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