He might escape for the time, at least, these allies of his one-time pals by going to a hotel and taking a room there; but to walk into a hotel would be to walk into arrest.

On the other hand, he might evade the police if he sought refuge in one of his old haunts, or perhaps with old Bronson; but then his angered pals knew of these haunts, and to enter one of them would be to offer himself freely to their vengeance.
There were other cities--but then how was he to get to them?
He saw Manhattan for what it was to a man who was a fugitive from justice and injustice: an island, a trap, with only a few outlets and inlets for its millions: two railway stations--a few ferries--a few bridges--a few tunnels: and at every one of them policemen watching for him.

He could not leave New York.

And yet how in God's name was he to stay here?
He thought of Maggie.

So she wanted the life of dazzling, excitement, of brilliant adventure, did she?
He wondered how she would like a little of the real thing--such as this?
As he neared Forty-Second Street he still was without definite plan which would guarantee him safety, and there was Lefty hanging on doggedly.