The youngster put his chin down in his neck and came back to me. When he was within arm’s reach, he stopped, letting his left side turn a bit to the front. His hands were hanging loose. Mine were in my overcoat pockets.
He said, “Huh?” again.
I said:
“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.
“Yeah. It’s all fixed—if he doesn’t blow town, or say something to his backers, or just pay no attention to me, or—”
MacSwain developed a lot of nervousness.
“You better damn sight be careful,” he warned me. “They might try to put you out the way. He—I got to see a fellow down the street,” and he