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In a few minutes he will go through the green door. But before he goes … before that slow, steady march into the unknown begins, the Devil has something to say. I AM the Devil. That’s the name my mob gave me years ago. If you’re curious about my real moniker, you can find it in the prison records. The light’s on in my cell. They’ve given me a stack of paper. I’m going to write a story—a true story. I’m going to finish it before…before morning. Here goes. THE “Devil” leaned back under the wheel of his bullet proof car, and waited. His eyes were dark slits under the black peaked brows which met over his long nose. His mouth was a thin streak of blood in the dead white of his intent face. The Devil waited—and watched. He watched a certain, silent house, one of a row of squat old buildings in New York’s Village. There was one square of light in the dark front of the house. Suddenly, that light went out

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