Slick Tennant had a hunch. The sixth sense that had made him king of the local rackets, that had warned him in time when three of his men fell to the machine guns of a rival gang, now told him that the Feds were after him, that they had evidence to send him up for a long stretch. But he was going where even the Feds couldn't extradite him. Slick Tennant was going to hide in the future. They didn't call him Slick for nothing. For months, a private dick in his pay had shadowed Dr. Richard Porter,