``Yeah,'' he said.

``Casey?''

``Yeah.''

``Tony Calenda.''

Casey heard the voice distinctly and he knew who it was, but it took him a while to make the mental readjustment and control the disturbance inside his head. When he heard Calenda say: ``What about that picture you took this afternoon?'' it still took him another few seconds to remember the job he had done for Frank Ackerly.

``What picture?'' he demanded.

``You took a picture of me at the corner of Washington and Blake about three thirty this afternoon.''

``Who says so?''

``One of my boys.''

Casey believed that much. Calenda was not the sort who walked around without one of his ``boys'' close at hand.

``So?''

``With my trial coming up in Federal Court next week I wouldn't want that picture published.''

``Who says it's going to be published?''

``I wouldn't even want it to get around.''

Under normal circumstances Casey was a little fussy when people told him what to do with pictures he had taken. Even so, he generally listened and was usually reasonable to those who voiced their objections properly. Right now, however, he was still too worried about Jerry Burton, and the gun that had no bullets, and the story Burton had told him, to care too much about Tony Calenda. His nerves were getting a little ragged and his impatience put an edge in his voice.

``Look,'' he said. ``I was hired to take a picture. I took it. That's all I know about it and that's all I care.''