Jeff said: “Hell with Francis West.”
Ned Beaumont shrugged. “I didn’t know him.”
Jeff said: “You’re a heel.”
Ned Beaumont said: “I’ll buy a drink.”
The apish man nodded solemnly and tilted his chair back to reach the bell-button. With his finger on the button he said: “But you’re still a heel.” His chair swayed back under him, turning. He got his feet flat on the floor and brought the chair down on all fours before it could spill him. “The bastard!” he snarled, pulling it around to the table again. He put his elbows on the table and propped his chin up on one fist. “What the hell do I care who turns me up? You don’t think they’d ever fry me, do you?”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Jesus! I wouldn’t have to stand the rap till after election and then it’s all Shad’s.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe hell!”
The waiter came in and they ordered their drinks.
“Maybe Shad would let you take the fall anyhow,” Ned Beaumont said idly when they were alone again. “Things like that have happened.”
“A swell chance,” Jeff scoffed, “with all I’ve got on him.”
Ned Beaumont exhaled cigar-smoke. “What’ve you got on him?”
The apish man laughed, boisterously, scornfully, and pounded the table with an open hand. “Christ!” he roared, “he thinks I’m drunk enough to tell him.”
From the doorway came a quiet voice, a musical slightly Irish barytone: “Go on, Jeff, tell him.” Shad O’Rory stood in the doorway. His grey-blue eyes looked somewhat sadly at Jeff.
Jeff squinted his eyes merrily at the man in the doorway and said: “How are you, Shad? Come in and set down to a drink. Meet Mr. Beaumont. He’s a heel.”
O’Rory said softly: “I told you to stay under cover.”
“But, Jesus, Shad, I was getting so’s I was afraid I’d bite myself! And this joint’s under cover, ain’t it? It’s a speakeasy.”
O’Rory looked a moment longer at Jeff, then at Ned Beaumont. “Good evening, Beaumont.”
“‘Lo, Shad.”
O’Rory smiled gently and, indicating Jeff with a tiny nod, asked: “Get much out of him?”
“Not much I didn’t already know,” Ned Beaumont replied. “He makes a lot of noise, but all of it doesn’t make sense.”
Jeff said: “I think you’re a pair of heels.”
The waiter arrived with their drinks. O’Rory stopped him. “Never mind. They’ve had enough.” The waiter carried their drinks away. Shad O’Rory came into the room and shut the door. He stood with his back against it. He said: “You talk too much, Jeff. I’ve told you that before.”
Ned Beaumont deliberately winked at Jeff.
Jeff said angrily to him: “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Ned Beaumont laughed.
“I’m talking to you, Jeff,” O’Rory said.
“Christ, don’t I know it?”
O’Rory said: “We’re coming to the place where I’m going to stop talking to you.”
Jeff stood op. “Don’t be a heel, Shad,” he said. “What the hell?” He came around the table. “Me and you’ve been pals a long time. You always were my pal and I’ll always be yours.” He put his arms out to embrace O’Rory, lurching towards him. “Sure, I’m smoked, but–”
O’Rory put a white hand on the apish man’s chest and thrust him back. “Sit down.” He did not raise his voice.
Jeff’s left fist whipped out at O’Rory’s face.
O’Rory’s head moved to the right, barely enough to let the fist whip past his cheek. O’Rory’s long finely sculptured face was gravely composed. His right hand dropped down behind his hip.
Ned Beaumont flung from his chair at O’Rory’s right arm, caught it with both hands, going down on his knees.
Jeff, thrown against the wall by the impetus behind his left fist, now turned and took Shad O’Rory’s throat in both hands. The apish face was yellow, distorted, hideous. There was no longer any drunkenness in it.
“Got the roscoe?” Jeff panted.
“Yes.” Ned Beaumont stood up, stepped back holding a black pistol leveled at O’Rory.
O’Rory’s eyes were glassy, protuberant, his face mottled, turgid. He did not struggle against the man holding his throat.
Jeff turned his head over his shoulder to grin at Ned Beaumont. The grin was wide, genuine, idiotically bestial. Jeff’s little red eyes glinted merrily. He said in a hoarse good-natured voice: “Now you see what we got to do. We got to give him the works.”