“Try to remember that⁠—if Ike Bush doesn’t turn in a win tonight, Al Kennedy will be riding east in the morning.”

He lifted his left shoulder an inch. I moved the gun around in my pocket, enough. He grumbled:

“Where do you get that stuff about me not winning?”

“Just something I heard. I didn’t think there was anything in it, except maybe a ducat back to Philly.”

“I oughta bust your jaw, you fat crook.”

“Now’s the time to do it,” I advised him. “If you win tonight you’re not likely to see me again. If you lose, you’ll see me, but your hands won’t be loose.”

I found MacSwain in Murry’s, a Broadway pool room.

“Did you get to him?” he asked.